


Come See Inside My Bones

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angry Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Bad Flirting, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Broken Bones, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Clothed Sex, Dark, Dom/sub, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fear, Fear of Death, Fever, Fights, First Dates, First Full Moon, First Time, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mirror Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Scott McCall, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Somnophilia, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage Drinking, Underage Stiles Stilinski, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sex, Werewolf Turning, mild restraint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5084359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't recognize the signs until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [livejournal.](http://cassandra-leeds.livejournal.com/31882.html)
> 
> Podfic of the first chapter of this fic read by [paintedpain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain) can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/524751).
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** Though I have written this as a fantastical heat!induced scenario where both parties are in a situation where they have no control, and throughout the following chapters continue dealing with a horrible and fantastical mutually non-consensual situation, there are parallels in speech and action here to real life non-consensual sex, abuse, Stockholm Syndrome-like symptoms on Stiles' part, and additionally themes that are reminiscent of victims romanticizing abusers. I encourage reader discretion if any of this is subject matter you are not comfortable reading even in fantasy.
> 
> Warnings and additional tags to be added with each chapter.

It’s not fair how vivid this is.

The tiles in the floor. The sticky heat of the room. The smell of Derek, reeking of musk. His own heartbeat in his chest nearly breaking his ribs, putting the sounds around him at a sick tempo, and making his gasping breath just that much louder over it.

The cold of the wall against Stiles’ face is warming and everything about this is _here_. Derek’s grip on his neck and his hip is tight enough to bruise, Stiles knows, but it’s not registering as pain. Derek is burning up, burning against him, pressed against his back and  _smelling_  Stiles, right behind his ears, growling low and close enough to be too loud.

No one’s coming. No one’s saving him this time. No one knows he’s here with Derek. No one knows, as Stiles knows now, what all the warning signs were. That Derek doesn’t act the way he has been (breaking random things that didn’t work, keying cars parked too close, not saying anything for hours while staring at Stiles like he could be snapped in half) without it meaning something.

 

It had been 2AM when Derek showed up in his room. and he'd seemed to be in pain. Stiles hesitated to ask. "What are you sick or something?" Derek had nodded, not making eye contact. Stiles put on a movie but halfway through it Derek started groaning and curling in on himself. _"_ Jesus," Stiles cursed. "You  _are_  sick." Derek writhed and then sucked in his breath, nodded again. "You need a doctor then, yeah?" Derek didn’t answer as it sunk it. Stiles put his hand to his hairline. _"_ Crap, this is werewolf stuff, isn’t it?" There was no answer. Derek pulled himself together and righted himself, sat up. "Derek, talk to me, do you need something? Medicine or… a tranquilizer?" He still had the vet office key on his key ring. Derek was so distant at this point Stiles just had to make the decision on his own and if there was any place he could find something to help whatever this was it was the vet, right? "Come on."

His gut told him this was a horrible idea. The whole drive there, with Derek shivering in the passenger seat and staring over at Stiles like he was going to tear him apart, all Stiles could do was think this was a profoundly bad idea. He was Scott’s alibi tonight while he went out with Alison. He didn’t ask to be with Derek tonight. But Derek showed up in his room again, just like he always does, scaring the shit out of Stiles at all hours of the night. “Keeping an eye on you,” he says, but he never says why.

Stiles can’t deny the thrill of it. He’s terrified of Derek and the fact that he keeps showing up is keeping him in a heightened state of anticipation. He’s always ready to be startled. He’s maybe started hoping for it. Maybe even been seeking it out. He doesn’t like it, but he’s excited by it and that wins out a lot of the time. Every night it’s winning out more and more. He lies in bed and lets his mind wander and his fantasies start echoing teeth and snarls and long nails.

Does Derek know? Does he sense he wants to this just as much as he doesn’t? Has Derek seen him coming apart in the dark, cold space of his room, animalistic thoughts in his head?

By the time they got to the vet Derek was pouring sweat. Stiles got them in and led the way back, through the lobby and the halls down to the room they’d been in when he held that saw in his hand. There were drugs in there. And if he couldn’t cure this at least they could find something for pain.

The door locked behind him and Stiles spun around to find Derek now heavy lidded and pulling off his shirt with white knuckled fists.

“What are you doing?” Why hadn’t Stiles seen this coming? “What—”

Derek let out a breathy whine, muscles hard and shaking before he was on Stiles, holding him to the wall by his throat.

Derek smelled like sex.

And suddenly Stiles knew what this was. This wasn’t just pain or illness whatever he might have guessed. This went farther than that, deeper.

He’d seen this before; Animal Planet was as educational as it was confusingly arousing these days.

Along with the fear he felt so stupid he could die.

Derek shuddered and pressed him back just that much harder, wall digging into his spine, hardness rubbing into his hip.

Stiles, oh, god, Stiles knew he was completely screwed. He was right, oh, fuck, he was right.

“You’re in heat,” he choked out, still catching his breath as Derek’s grip tightened his over his windpipe again with tensing fingers. Stiles raised his arms to his chest in surrender, in plea, in protest, in submission, anything. “Derek, you’re in heat.”

“You think I don’t know?” Derek shouted and slammed Stiles back against the wall with one great shake that left his teeth rattling and his head fuzzy for a moment.

“You’ve been fucking toying with me for weeks.” He snarled and Stiles could see the flash of fangs.

Stiles exhaled, confused, but humiliated all the same.

“All those things in your head, all those— god _dammit_ —” Derek broke off and lowered his head, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “Just, please, we can figure this out.” His mind raced. “Find you a werewolf lady and you’ll be fine. You can both… breed, or whatever. It’ll be…” Derek looked back up at him and Stiles blood went cold. “fine…”

Derek examined his face like a meal. “You want to fight me for this?” He inhaled up the side of his head and breathed out a low sound like a curse. When the words gusted warm over Stiles face in measured beats it smelled like blood. “Do… you want… to fight me?”

Stiles considered it, but shook his head finally.

Derek turned him around violently and pressed his face to the wall.

 

All he can do is keep breathing. All he can do is breathe and hope he can talk sense into Derek and, god, stop thinking of how good it feels to be on this razor’s edge of fear. His cock aches and it’s just too much to try and think about anything when everything is so keen and huge.

So fucking crystal clear.

Derek wants to have him. He wants Stiles. Right here on this vet room floor that smells like cat piss and sterilizing cleaner. He wants to take him until there’s nothing left to take.

Derek wants  _him_. Stiles feels a jolt run through him at that straight to his groin because he never let himself think it could be true, never let his fantasies wander that far into reality. Derek shifts behind him and growls in anger and Stiles knows Derek sensed that thought. It was too strong not too and he knows.

Derek whispers, but it’s deafening in the shell of Stiles ear. “I fucking  _hate_  you.” He keens and presses the hard shape of his cock against Stiles ass and it’s unreal. Derek ruts helplessly and groans, hisses out, “You think I want this? You think I  _like_  this?”

Stiles stomach goes sour at that, his mouth goes dry. Pain registers again in such a harsh rush, the instinct to try and get away is too strong to not squirm. Fear leaves his skin cold under his clothes. But there is no way to get out of this without submitting completely, other than dying or somehow killing Derek. And he doesn’t think he could do that even if he needed to.

Derek’s pushing down his pants and Stiles winces because he hadn’t thought this far into it and its different now air is hitting his skin. It’s frightening now. It’s happening.

He’s never been this far with anyone.

“Do you…” Stiles says and tenses and gasps as he feels Derek’s fingers reach down and force inside him, work hard at opening him up. “Fuck… ow. Fuck…”

“Don’t talk anymore.” Derek spits.

But Stiles has to ask because he doesn’t want to have to repeat this, he wants to know what he has to give. Derek’s fingers flex inside him and it fucking hurts like hell. “Do you need me to do anything?” Stiles grits out.

Derek’s fingers are rough and he can’t help but try and move away as he works his ass violently.

“Ow, fuck, Derek… hurts, slow down,” Stiles grits out straining to pull away.

Derek grabs him by the hair to still him, forces three fingers in all the way to the knuckles and says so carefully even that even through the blinding pain, Stiles feels chilled. “I’m trying very hard not to turn here, Stiles. If I do I will not be half as gentle as I am now.” He growls. “To put it simply: Do you want to die?”

Stiles shakes his head and Derek twists those fingers deep inside him and Stiles feels like a chord string plucked. He gasps and bites back the plea in his throat, because damn if he doesn’t want Derek to do that again.

“What…” Stiles asks, fear still clammy on his skin, blood still running cold. “What can I do?”

Derek removes his fingers and pushes Stiles to his knees, bends him over and snarls, “You can shut the fuck up before I rip your tongue out of that smart mouth to save your life.”

Stiles wants to protest because he wasn’t being smart, he wasn’t, but Derek presses him down, bites his neck until Stiles can’t help whimpering. He doesn’t know if the wet warmth on his neck is saliva or blood or both when Derek shifts up, nips his ear, and mutters, “Gonna be a good little bitch, aren’t you?”

Stiles puts his head down on the tiled floor, defeated, because this is over, and he is. And he will be.

“That’s right, that’s right.” Derek’s murmuring drunkenly as he tears the back of Stiles shirt in half, opening it and exposing him to the cold air, grabbing at the shivering flesh beneath. In another few moves, Derek’s pulled off Stiles’ belt and tugged at the waistband of his pants until it rips too and can be pulled frantically down around his thighs.

“You’re gonna give it to me,” Derek breathes and Stiles hears the jingle of Derek’s belt, the shift of fabric before Derek’s fever-hot hands are on his hips and waist again.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, hears it far away. “Yeah.”

Derek folds heavily over him, covers him in burning, wet heat, and whines into Stiles neck as he positions himself. Stiles tries to relax, breathes in and out deeply, but then Derek is forcing in, pushing in blunt and relentless, and it feels like he’s fucking being torn in half. Stiles’ whole body goes tense and jerks and he can hear himself screaming as Derek roughly pulls him back, pulls him that much farther onto his cock.

“Derek, please,  _please_ …” He doesn’t know what he’s screaming for, but he can’t help it, he can’t stop.

Derek falters for a moment as if he’s caught off guard by the words. He grunts, and Stiles can feel the flex of his whole abdomen against his back as he gives in and thrusts into him completely in one long slow move, racking another shout from Stiles as the pain shoots through him all the way to his toes. Derek makes a sound like he hasn’t had water in days and Stiles is the first gulp, he moans like it’s still not enough, and pivots deeper again and again. And it hurts like hell, but every few thrusts it feels like a burning high note of pleasure and Stiles is hard. He’s so hard despite all of it.

He knows he can’t ask here, because he’s pretty sure Derek has to take for this to work. He can sense that asking for anything is a dance with death. But he _needs_. He needs so badly. He doesn’t know if the heat is rubbing off on him or if fucking Derek like this even through the pain is just that good. All he knows is he feels like he’s going to fly apart if he doesn’t touch himself.

“May I,” Stiles chokes out in a groan as Derek hits that point deep in him that makes it hard to breathe,  _Jesus_. “May I…”

“Stiles, will you just  _shut up_?” Derek lets out another whine and humps him fast and hard for a moment before moaning softly and slowing the pace.

“I need to— oh my god, Derek… Can I come? Can I come?”

Derek stills for what feels like an eternity and then bites down on Stiles’ neck and twists the skin in his teeth before gritting out, “Not yet.”

Stiles gasps at the promise, almost falls forward with the relief of it along with the burning coil of need that’s building low in his gut as Derek rides him faster and faster with short yiffing sounds, bites back the cries in his throat and focuses on balancing, arms now sore and shaking.

Derek reaches over to the counter next to him for leverage with a shout, pumps his hips a few more times and then shudders in frustration, commands, “Beg.”

“Wh-what?”

A rough, angry growl and a shove of his hips, and Stiles cries out. Derek repeats lower. “I said ‘beg.’ Beg me.”

“For what?” Stiles is far away now. The complex clarity from before, now base and simple – pain and desperation. He feels his fingernails digging at the grout, at the edges of the tiles. He’s voice is wrecked as he repeats, “For what?” throat sore, suddenly aware of how his face stings. He’s been crying. “What?”

“ _Anything!_ ” Derek shouts just as torn and he’s got his grip around Stiles neck again, holding his pulse hostage there, making Stiles just that much farther away as the world tilts with the lack of blood to his brain.

“Oh, god,” Stiles hears it like it’s someone else, someone else is here shouting through his vocal chords. “Oh, god, please,” _don’t kill me_  “please… ” _don’t stop_.

It’s building in him like an earthquake, a louder and louder roar of sensation that Derek is pounding out of him, fucking him closer and closer to the edge until he feels like he’s dying.

“Oh, god, do it. Just fucking do it!” He sobs. “Breed me, breed me. Goddammit…  _give me it_. Please… oh, god…”

Stiles comes cursing and it feels like a fire, it feels like a limb pushed out of its socket, it feels like the best thing he’s ever felt in his life, and Derek shouts again and again pulsing hot inside him, the last thrust a shuddering push, the last cry so grateful it breaks the last bit of Stiles and he’s crying. He’s sobbing with relief, face down, grinding his cheek into the grit of the tile. He doesn’t know what he’s saying but he can’t stop the words, whatever they are.

Derek’s still buried deep inside him and is holding him down on the floor, holding himself deep inside him. Stiles struggles and Derek holds his arms down, hushes, “Don’t move,” when Stiles tries to squirm away and then more forcefully “Shh, shh” as Derek tenses again with a grunt, and Stiles feels the second flood of come, the trickle of it leaking from him. “Just a little longer, I promise,” Derek promises breathlessly and Stiles nods, still weeping. Oh god, he can feel everything and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

Stiles finally relaxes as Derek groans through another wave of climax, pulsing his hot seed deep into him, and Stiles is slick and lose around him. He groans. He feels like he’s been brought back from the dead. It doesn’t feel good.

Derek is petting him though, has his hand awkwardly in his hair, still hushing, and it’s apologetic. And Stiles doesn’t want to cry anymore, he really doesn’t.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when Derek finally pulls out but he’s too broken to move. There’s the sound of running water and the sound of clothes shifting. Suddenly there’s warmth between his ass and a sharp stinging pain that makes him tense up and hiss.

It’s gentle though and Derek wipes gently with the wet cloth saying, “Shh.” Other hand splayed protectively over his lower back.

Stiles nods in response.

“Can you sit up?”

Stiles pulls his torn pants up with one aching arm and turns. He’s never hurt this much in his life. He bites back a whimper when he sits, shifts slightly to his hip to ease the pressure off his ass, which is throbbing and stinging and Stiles feels the edge of hysteria rising up in his throat like vomit because he can’t imagine the pain ending.

Derek returns with another wet towel and starts tentatively wiping at Stiles face, which stings too, but it brings him back to himself. Stiles is afraid to see his own face now if it needs this much touching up. He can’t look up though, can’t judge from Derek’s face how bad it is because he can’t bring himself to look at Derek right now.

Stiles stares at his pants. They have blood all over them.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says finally.

Derek falters for a moment, sounds disgusted when he mutters in reply, “Why are you sorry?”

Stiles licks his chapped lips, tasting iron and salt.

“I,” He sorts it out because he has to source where the guilt comes from. Something before. “You said I was toying with you.”

Derek shakes his head and breathes deep. “Forget what I said.”

“I should have told you how… I felt. I should have known about this,” he motions limply. “I should have figured it out.”

Derek grabs Stiles jaw and forces him to look up at him. He’s sickly looking, when Stiles focuses, pale, and his hand on his jaw gentler almost immediately. “Stop it.”

Stiles crumples back, feels tears pricking at his eyes again, feels his face trying to fold in on a sob and he breathes in deep to quell it. His heart is a hammer when he asks. “Is that it?”

Derek examines him and waits.

“Are you going to have to do that again?” Stiles gets it out before he thinks about it in detail. “Can we find you someone better? A wolf lady or… I know I wasn’t first choice here.”

Derek looks stung. He looks miserable.

“I’m just guessing, you know, wolves stay in heat for a while,” Stiles shift again, because fuck his ass hurts so bad. “How many more times do you need to do this if you do?”

“Two more times, maybe three,” Derek says finally under his breath.

Stiles nods, fear pounding in his chest.

Derek looks up and when he meets Stiles eye again says, “I only have one mate for a season.”

Stiles nods again biting down on his lip. Fuck.

“No one else can take your place now.”

Stiles’ nod turns to a head shake because the guilt is overwhelming. “I’m sorry.”

“You have to stop saying that.” Derek says.

“But I am - I mean you don’t like me and you’re forced to fuck me now? You hate me. Honestly I’m surprised you haven’t killed me yet.” Stiles feels hot all over, he’s sweating. “I mean you made it pretty clear how you feel. I think the only thing worse than your position in this if even just slightly is mine.” Stiles can hear his voice going manic, feels the world tipping. He’s breathing too fast. “I can’t believe—“

Derek is on Stiles in one move and for a split second Stiles thinks  _this is it, it’s all over_. But then Derek’s mouth is finally, finally shutting his up, kissing deep and warm and confused.

Derek gaze is pleading when he pulls away slightly and whispers, “Please forget what I said.”

Stiles takes a good minute or so to process it and Derek gets up in the midst of Stiles piecing it together to get another towel. Stiles can only let his denial go so far here, but the part of his brain that would accept this picture can’t make the whole leap either. “You don’t hate me?” He says and is embarrassed by how stupid it sounds.

Derek doesn’t answer, turns on the water to wet the towel again.

Stiles feels his chest get tighter in a way that only spells trouble for him ever. Trouble and disappointment as soon as he opens his mouth.

But he does it anyway.

“I suppose it would be kind of redundant to say I don’t hate you either.”

Derek washes his hands in silence.

His voice is quiet when he finally answers, “Yes.”

It’s like an opiate for a moment. Nothing hurts because there is something happening here. It might never happen again, whatever just passed between them in those words, but it’s more than Stiles ever expected. It’s disturbingly wonderful. Because where does it go from here? What will they ever say to one another again?

The room is tipping though. Stiles is dizzy. And he just keeps getting hotter. “I think I’m going to pass out.” He’s bled a lot. Maybe he needs to go to a hospital. Or sleep or—

Stiles’ thoughts stop dead. He puts his hand to his neck where the bite is still fresh and raw and deep. Still hot and wet under his fingers, heat radiating slowly down through his spine.

His blood runs cold.

“You bit me,” he breathes, hates how he can’t tell if it’s shock he’s feeling or relief. “You bit me.”

Derek doesn’t answer or turn.

Stiles feels the tile of the wall behind his head and the world goes distant and dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is coming to new awareness and still completely screwed.

Stiles wakes up sobbing curses, Derek deep inside him.

They’re somewhere different than they were before. It’s softer here, muffled. Smells like wet earth and old wood. Smells like a fireplace. The sour smell of come.

The tang of blood.

There’s dim light coming from somewhere in the room but he can’t focus. He knows it’s Derek, knows his smell now too, as overwhelming as a strong flavor that won’t leave his mouth. He twists as Derek groans, fills him again and again. "Trying to…. fast… S-sorry... I’m sorry."

It doesn’t hurt like it did before. He feels light and achy and distant, fevered and blinded by it. But the pain is different. He hears himself moaning, soft and low, needy. He tenses his ass hard around Derek when his abs brush over his cock.

“Did you…?” Stiles hears his voice far off, feels the full push of cock deep inside him through the fuzzy filter of this moment, this moment.  Is it… did he? “Derek. Derek. Hale.” His brain forms the name and he can’t connect it. It’s an abstraction next to the unrealness of everything sensory, the hand around Stiles’ cock might as well be around his whole body.  “Fuck, you did it,” he groans, “You did—“ Derek covers his mouth and Stiles laughs bitterly under the weight of it.

“Stiles, please,” Derek grits out. “I can’t hear that right now, Stiles.”

Derek’s grip starts pumping Stiles' cock in earnest and Stiles isn’t laughing anymore.

It’s hazy, all of this is hazy. But he knows he’s not himself anymore. He’s grieving for something that is hard to pinpoint until he realizes part of his human self is dying.

He won’t be the Stiles he’s gotten almost comfortable with being – hell, he’s worked hard to be - ever again.

He’s leaving it all behind and he can’t remember if he chose this. He knows deep down he longed for it. But now he’s pulsing with the change, climbing to this peak and he can hear the truth in Derek’s words in the beat of his pulse, heavy and strong.

“Mine.” A rough scratch of stubble like sand paper on his neck as Derek kisses and licks the bite there, still burning like a star. “Wanted it.”

Stiles nods, because it rings like a chord through his brain and he knows Derek is completely sincere. He knows that this is new - this is the first instance of the new tool of this body, and he fears it, but savors it too. He’s virginal to all things now, every sensation a new one from here on.

And it all starts with sensing Derek wants him more than anything.

Derek lets out a guttural groan above him and tenses hard, flooding Stiles, and then thrusting hard through the slickness. Stiles hears his own breath hitch as he thrusts up, gives in, and feels his body open to it and then close on the pinnacle of climax like a fist.

Stiles feels it crest through him, breach and crash, one more level beyond the one he’s on now, bliss beyond bliss, power and surrender all in one shaking push up into Derek’s fist. The world is glowing to the point of pain with how good this is.

 _Derek,_  he thinks or maybe says,  _Derek, how long?_

Derek is still fucking him, he’s still hard and huge and nestled deep inside, thrusting slow. He starts petting Stiles hair. It’s awkward but he does it, just as he had before. And Stiles winces and shivers coming down to the feeling of sharp claws against his scalp.

It might be the sexiest thing he’s ever felt. God, he feels drugged.

Derek rolls over to his side finally, cock slipping wetly out of Stiles. He rests on Stiles’ shoulder, catching his breath as Stiles shakes because it all still feels incredible - the hot length of him close to his side, the burning heat of his cock resting on his hip. So much more than he ever imagined the change would feel like and now… It’s excruciating, but there is a pleasure there, unyielding. It can’t be like this forever. Can it?

“How long does it take?” Stiles tries again. Because he can only stand this for so long. He feels like he’s about to fly apart.

“It’s different for everyone,” Derek breathes. “A few days.”

Stiles laughs bitterly. “Assuming I survive, of course.”

Derek shifts until Stiles can feel him glance up at him. “You’ll survive.”

Stiles can hear the uncertainty there he breathlessly laughs again, insulted, “You do realize it’s pointless to lie to me now, don’t you?”

Derek is silent for a moment.

“Of course there is no definite way to be sure,” Derek explains softly, “but you’re strong. I have faith.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at that. Faith isn’t so bad, he guesses. He closes his eyes and dozes, head swimming.

“You should clean up.”

Stiles rouses enough to make sense of the words and frowns. “You have running water here?”

Derek sits up, walks to the closet. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” He throws Stiles a towel. “First door to your right.”

He rises and looks around, and feels himself sober as he searches the floor for his clothes to find the bloodstained remnants of them in the corner. Stiles looks away fast. Yeah, that’s not going to work, okay. He grumbles before wrapping the towel around his waist. Derek might have seen all of him at this point – every crevice and angle – but that doesn’t make nudity any less awkward right now.

The bathroom is in pretty good shape considering it survived a fire. Even if the paint is stained gray in places, it’s clean, and the water heats fast. The pressure is good.

Stiles lets the heat envelop him and exhales. He leans back into the spray. All of him aches and he knows it’s not just from the night before, or the last few hours with Derek. It feels deeper and lasting like a fever. It makes his skin oversensitive. He breathes out again and quiets the fear that keeps trying to take him over. He tells himself he is going to be okay. Okay enough. If his best friend could make this work so can he. He’s strong, deep down. He knows that even if he’s just a scrap of a kid with a mouth on him, he’s lived through more than most of his classmates. And he is not alone, he tells himself. He isn’t.

But Scott wasn’t turned like this.

Stiles tries really hard to not think about how bad his ass still hurts as he bends down, how empty he feels. How confused.

Stiles sinks down to sit in the tub under the shower and closes his eyes. He shivers and looks down. The water is rust colored around his feet and swirling down the drain, and that makes him feel a nice mix of disturbed by the sight and relieved that he’s getting it off him. All the bruises from the other night are so faint they’re barely there, he notes. He’s healing fast. He squeezes his eyes shut again, runs his fingers over his forearms, his hands over his face. What will they feel like when he turns completely for the first time? How will that pain feel? Will he hate this new form? Will he have to learn to accept it? More frightening, will he enjoy the way it feels?

He’s scared but feels his cock trying to jump to life all the same and he shakes out his shoulders and raises his face to the spray. No.

Stiles reaches for the soap but doesn’t stand. He rubs the bar over his skin. It’s Irish Spring, like Dad used to get. Mom liked the smell on him, would sniff and hum her approval and make Dad smile. Stiles hasn’t seen a bar of it in the house since a few months after she died. He remembers the last bar of it now too, waning into wax on the soap dish in Dad’s bathroom. Untouched.

Stiles scrubs himself slowly, lets the water wash him as he goes, and tries to enjoy the momentary shift in his thinking. It’s ridiculous because it’s just soap. But the smell brings back vivid feelings of a time before everything got messy and hard and awful and the warm water feels good on him.

When he finally rises he feels considerable better and stronger. The rush of fever seems to have quieted at the moment and has left him feeling healthier than he can ever remember feeling. A thrill runs through him because if this is how it always feels it’s no wonder Derek struts the way he does. He feels like he could run miles and miles right now and not like he’s been fucked into unconsciousness. He swallows, remembering the grit of tile, the feel of bloody clothes, the way parts of it are so far away in his memory it feels like it happened weeks ago or to someone else. He winces. Not where he wanted his thoughts to go.

There’s a knock and Stiles jumps.

Derek calls, “Everything okay?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Y-yeah.”

“Just checking.” Derek is right behind the door, Stiles can hear. Actually, he notices, he can  _smell_  too.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, considering that, and when he can sense Derek still waiting there, “I can take a shower, really,” Stiles protests, then adds, “If you have any clothes that might fit me that would be pretty great.”

Derek falters and retreats.

Stiles rolls his eyes. So much for an answer. He dries off and catches his reflection in the mirror as he gets out.

He lets himself look finally. He  _really_  looks.

Superficially he looks pretty much the same. Still on the slight side, though he wonders if it’s just paranoia that has him seeing more muscle on himself than he remembers. His cheek is still a little bruised but all the abrasions are gone.

He meets his own eyes though and sees a moment where a shocking glint of yellow flashes behind them and he immediately shuts them tight, puts his hand over his mouth. He breathes through his nose. Okay, no mirror for a while.

Derek knocks again and Stiles wraps the towel around his waist.

He passes a pair of jeans, a shirt, a pair of briefs, and a belt through to Stiles. “Thanks,” Stiles mutters.

 

The floor is rough under his bare feet when he walks back to the bedroom, heart thumping in his chest.

Derek is dressed and picking up the room but stops as Stiles comes in, looks him up and down, licks his lips, then says, almost an afterthought, “Well, it’ll do.”

“Yeah, your clothes are too big for me.” Stiles says awkwardly, feels a thrill with Derek’s eyes running over him but also feels desperate to get the attention off himself all of a sudden. “Have you seen my phone?”

“I took everything out of you pockets and put it on the dresser. I, uh…” Derek squints. Stiles sees that the space where his clothes had been piled is empty. “I figured you didn’t have much of an interest in keeping what was left of your clothes.”

Stiles nods and crosses the room to grabs his phone to check for new calls. He grimaces as he flicks through. His dad has luckily only called twice and left a voicemail about how he’d really appreciate it if he at least texted him when he was going to stay over at Scott’s. “ _We’ll talk tonight. Dinner’s at seven_.”

There are twelve calls from Scott, ten texts of various levels of distress, and one voicemail:

“ _Your Dad didn’t know where you were, so I said you were with me. Where are you? If you don’t get back to me in the next few hours I’m going to tell your Dad the truth. Why aren’t you answering? Call me, please_.”

Stiles calls back fast at the threat without really thinking and when Scott’s relieved voice is on the other end of the line saying his name Stiles can’t say anything for a good ten seconds.

“Stiles? Stiles, what the hell? Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Stiles is having trouble putting together the words and he finally gives Derek a pleading look, a gesture of ‘give me a minute please.’ Derek gets the message, nods, and steps out.

“What’s happening, Stiles? Where are you?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, and leans forward, phone to his ear, hand over his eyes, feels his chest tightening when he realizes he has to explain this to someone else. Now.

He wasn’t ready for this and he doesn’t know where to start. Stiles chokes back a completely unexpected sob, covers it with his hand so it’s silent.

There is a pause on the other end of the line, the wavering sound of nervous anticipation of something bad. He can feel all annoyance fall away from Scott’s tone when he asks, “Stiles?”

“I got bit,” Stiles shudders it out, through lips that won’t stop trembling. “I got the Bite. I’m… fuck…”

Scotts voice is quiet. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

And then Scott’s tone is murderous. “Who?”

Stiles breathes deep, feels a bit more stable. “Derek.”

“What?! How?”

Stiles laughs mirthlessly, “You’re probably going to throw up but,” he swallows, “Derek was, uh, kind of in heat and before I knew it, uh…” Stiles starts feeling sick. “We got ourselves into kind of a bad situation.”

Scott is actually speechless on the other end of the line.

“Did he-” God, Scott really does sound like he’s going to kill Derek. “Did he… take advantage of you?”

Stiles bites his lip because that’s what it seems like doesn’t it? In all actuality he was raped. They both were.  If Derek hadn’t been a supernatural creature in heat and had wanted anything to do with it, Stiles would… he doesn’t know what he’d be doing but he wouldn’t be this confused. Stiles is not ready to sort this out now.

“He was in heat and probably didn’t enjoy a second of it, so you tell me.”

Scott sounds more gutted than Stiles has heard in a while.

“And he bit you?” Scott asks.

Stiles hates the way his voice rasps when he answers, “Yeah.”

This is all becoming a little too clear. The last twenty-four hours are making more sense than he would like.

“Where are you?” is all Scott says.

Derek knocks and Stiles looks up, lies, “Uh, going home.”

“I’m coming over.” Scott declares.

Derek inches through the door and Stiles knows just by the scent of him that Derek would rip anyone apart who got too close to Stiles right now. Adrenaline runs through Stiles, cold pulse of it under his skin. He smells Derek’s musk like it’s on him already and he swallows, warmth in his belly.

“That would be a very bad idea.”

Derek moves closer and Stiles watches the slight sway of him as he steps across the room, hovers above him, completely predatory.

The thing is Stiles is feeling less and less like prey. He holds Derek’s gaze in questioning challenge, he feels a need to test.

Derek puts his finger between Stiles’ cheek and the phone, a silent order to end it, and Stiles feels a strange relief mix with the rush. He moves his head against Derek’s touch, closes his eyes, sighs.

“I gotta go, Scott.”

“What—“

“I’m alright.” The phrase sounds empty. “I’ll call you.”

As soon as he ends the call he moans into Derek’s hand, mouths at the palm. “Fuck…”

Derek growls low in his throat as his hand moves up to Stiles’ crown, coaxes his head back to expose his neck, and move in. He puts his hands under the shirt Stiles just put on, runs lengthening claws over his ribs until Stiles laughs, ticklish, and then swears as Derek start to pull the shirt over his head.

“Should’ve never put you back in clothes,” Derek mutters.

Stiles silently agrees.

 

Stiles gets home for dinner seven minutes late. He persuaded Derek to give him some time by explaining in great detail the depth of shit they would both be in if the sheriff’s son went missing. One hour to eat dinner and sneak out again. “You can make it one hour, right?”

They’d fucked once more in the car with Stiles moaning Derek’s name into the headrest the whole time for good measure.

Stiles dad had ordered dinner from KFC and after Stiles apologizes profusely and makes a good handful of excuses about his phone having issues, Stiles dad says if it happens again they are going to have to reexamine the freedom he has on weekends.

He looks over Stiles in his ill-fitting, unfamiliar clothes, and frowns but says nothing.

Stiles eats most of a bucket of chicken while his dad watches him, incredulous.

“Did Scott not feed you?”

Stiles stops, mouth full and shrugs. “Just hungry.”

His dad shakes his head.

“That Adderall screws around with your appetite too much.”

Stiles grabs a biscuit in one hand and a wing in the other and shrugs again. And then as he chews he remembers the bite on his neck, pulls his collar up slightly. He looks over at his dad to see if the gesture was noticed but his dad looks preoccupied with his dinner, looking unusually tired as he chews.

Stiles swallows.

“I’m really sorry, Dad,” Stiles says quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

He feels the food heavy in his stomach. What is his life going to be like now when it comes to family? What will this do to his dad? To them?

“I know, son,” his dad says calmly, finally looks up. “Next time you’ll call.” He smiles, all trust and pride, and Stiles pulls a smile on his own face in response. Even if he drops the ball more often than not his dad loves him anyway and trusts him to get it right next time.

And he doesn’t know right now why that makes him feel worse, but it does.

“I have homework,” Stiles stammers, rising. “I’m gonna get a start on it.”

His dad nods.

Stiles watches him for a minute. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, kid.” He says and then looks up from his plate and points to Stiles’. “But you still have to take your plate to the kitchen.”

 

Stiles sits up on his bed, watching the clock and listening to his dad pacing downstairs, getting ready to turn in. He packed his backpack with a change of clothes, a spare toothbrush, his cell phone charger.

Somewhere below – no, Stiles can sense exactly where, how far down the block – Derek is waiting in his car. He’s touching himself, Stiles thinks, knows it. Knows that as soon as he’s in that car Derek will probably claim him again. He’s aching thinking about it. Despite the fear every time Derek touches him, his skin sings with a lust he’s never felt in his life. It’s all-consuming. He places his hand over his already stiff cock at the thought – Derek deep inside him, filling him, muttering “ _Mine_ ” into the shell of his ear as he floods his ass with come again and again. It’s not like these fantasies didn’t possess him before, but now it’s real, now it’s happening, and there’s no off switch for these thoughts. There’s nothing to stop his mind from taking that leap to the endless terrifying possibilities that  _could_  happen now. It keeps him aching and hard and reckless.

Stiles bites back the whimper in his throat, jiggles his knee. There’s still sound from dad’s bedroom.

Last night he was here with Derek, with Derek a hair away from breaking. Stiles was human last night and now he’s not. He’s in new form even if he doesn’t look it. He quiets his focus to himself and can feel this new body waking, feels the new power growing there and smiles to himself. It feel so good to zero in on it, when he gets past the fear, when he just focuses on how thinking about Derek makes him feel like a bowstring held tight, an arrow ready to be let loose. And he gets it, the allure of it. He could turn at any moment, anything could set it off. And he finds himself incredibly attracted to that idea. How far can his body go now? How much could it take? How much could it destroy?

He presses his hand against his groin, feels the jump his cock gives as he teases himself, feels the rush of this new body’s power evolving even in its pleasure.

He gives the silence from his dad’s room ten more agonizing minutes as he forces his hand to keep to itself, stuffs his bed pillows under the comforter into a vaguely Stiles-form, and then climbs out his window, closing it carefully behind him.

Derek is sitting in his car looking like he’s ready to snap and Stiles jogs the rest of the way to the passenger door. It’s locked. Derek is pissed, fine.

“Really?” Stiles hisses, “I had to wait till my dad was asleep, okay? You know, fine. By all means, enjoy riding this out without me. I have a nice bed I could be sleeping in that I happen to really enjoy so if-“

Derek unlocks the door.

“Thank you.” Stiles says cuttingly, sitting down.

Derek is on him in a split second, fist in his shirt, pulling him close. Stiles looks down at the hardness in Derek’s jeans, licks his lips, and raises his eyebrows.

“You’re talking to your Alpha. Don’t push it.”

Stiles snorts and mutters, mouth so close to Derek’s he feels like he’s spitting the words right back into his mouth. “My Alpha. Of course. Cause I chose all this. Right.”

Derek lets go of Stiles shirt and sits back in his seat looking like a smacked ass. There is silence all the way back to the Hale house. Stiles feels justified but it wasn’t a nice thing to say and it’s not exactly making any of this easier.

Stiles follows Derek inside and puts his backpack down and Derek disappears into his bedroom without a word. This would be easier if Stiles had any idea what to do next. He bites his finger for a minute in thought, chest heavy, heart beating strong, and, trusting his gut, follows Derek to his room.

Derek is sitting on the edge of his bed his head in his hands. Stiles hangs in the doorway.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You have every right to be angry with me.” Derek says it softly, but the words don’t tremble at all.

Stiles takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Yeah, I know.” Derek relaxes his arms to just rest on his knees, but keeps his eyes down. “But I don’t want to be.”

Derek does look up then and Stiles finds himself walking over to stand in front of him. He hears Derek breathe in, involuntarily smelling at Stiles, a small almost inaudible whine on the exhale.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s not like I hadn’t wanted it. I thought about it. A lot.” Stiles is speaking softly over him, dares to reach his hand out a bit and Derek watches it hungrily. “I thought about you. I thought about what it would be like with you…  _like_  you.” Derek leans forward towards him, pushes Stiles’ hand out of the way, and places his hands over Stiles hips possessively, pulls him forward until Stiles has to take a step closer and Derek has his face against Stiles stomach, hot breath and pressure against Stiles through his tshirt.

“I wanted it,” Stiles says. “But I couldn’t let your uncle give me the bite, Derek. I didn’t want it from him.” Derek moans against him and flexes his whole body on a thrust into nothing, and Stiles can’t help but shudder and sigh as Derek pushes up his shirt to mouth at skin. “Do—Do you need me to stop talking?” Stiles stammers. Derek moans again and then bites, digging claws into Stiles back. “Fuck…” Stiles doesn’t think, just climbs onto Derek, straddling him. Derek frowns but holds his arms as Stiles balances and works his hands between them to unbutton Derek’s jeans. He’s not sure what kind of bravery has come over him, but he likes it. He doesn’t feel as helpless in this position now or as distant from Derek. He aches all over. It could be partially the fever, but when he puts his hands to Derek’s face, holds Derek’s gaze in his own, he feels that ache crack open in his chest. How long has he wanted to be this close to Derek? This is the closest to gentle they’ve ever been with each other, ever.

I have a mate, Stiles thinks. Derek is my mate for this season.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek, nuzzles into his neck, whispers, “Alpha, may I kiss you?”

Derek makes a lost sound that turns into a growl deep in his throat. He turns his head towards Stiles, grit of his scruff rubbing against Stiles’ cheek. When Stiles find Derek’s mouth it’s so much softer than he had expected. The kiss is warm and deepens quickly, long sucks at his lips and tongue sliding gently in to touch his own. Stiles groans and pivots, urgency low in his belly. When he breaks from the kiss he’s breathless and he reaches down tentatively to reach into Derek’s jeans. When he looks back to Derek to see if the action is alright he sees a softness still there in his gaze. This is honestly all so different than before he wonders if the heat has passed and if this is something else.

If this is just them.

Stiles snakes his hand through Derek’s fly, feels him hard behind the thin material of his boxers. Derek leans his head back, clenching his teeth, fang visible for a split second. Stiles has never felt so powerful in his life.

“Say it,” Derek grits out as Stiles wraps his hand around hot flesh and pumps. “Say it again.”

Stiles smiles and feels a rush at the insistence, feels his own need echoing like a howl. “Alpha,” he growls, pushing Derek’s pants down, “would you breed me?” Derek’s leaving marks with his claws on his back and it burns but its spiking Stiles need just that much farther.

“Strip,” is all Derek responds and Stiles jumps back with a grace completely new to him, slips out of his clothes and waits as Derek does the same. “On the bed.”

Stiles crawls up to the head of the bed.

“All fours.”

Stiles frowns, stomach sinking as the words sink in. Suddenly it feels like square one and Stiles is so mad at himself as he turns over and gets into position, he could punch himself.

Derek is behind him in moments, one hand on Stiles ass, but that’s all. It’s comforting but the lack of action has Stiles stomach fluttering in anticipation.

“Everything okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek moves his hand up to Stiles’ lower back, rubs a slow circle and then there is wet heat on the cheek of Stiles’ ass the scratch of teeth, the slow pull of kiss after kiss.

“Oh, god…” Stiles curses into the mattress, hips jutting as Derek’s mouth works over, tongue tracing where his kisses just touched. It feels so good and yet is so close to ticklish Stiles’ whole body can’t decide whether it should be relaxing into it or jerking away. He shakes and squirms as Derek’s kisses move slowly over until he’s – Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Derek—” he starts, disbelief at how close Derek is to somewhere he surely can’t mean to be. But then Derek is licking right at the rim of Stiles’ hole, teasing there and Stiles moans wanton and shocked. The licking turns to kissing there too, slow make out with Stiles’ ass and Stiles is shaking. “Derek,  _fuck_.”

There is a finger running lightly next to Derek’s tongue and the promise of that is enough to have Stiles whimpering for it. Derek pushes in slowly but steadily, adds another finger on the next push, still kissing leisurely around where Stiles’ is tight around his knuckles. He breathes warm over him and Stiles knows he’s blushing like crazy. This is the kind of thing he’d never admit to wanting from anyone let alone imagine allowing anyone to do because this is the kind of thing you expect you’ll only see in porn and that’s that. But Derek is eating him out now and it’s like he knew exactly how much it would drive Stiles absolutely insane. God, it’s so filthy, he’s biting back the embarrassment that is keeping his chest so tight it’s hard to breathe save small desperate sounds. But honestly he doesn’t care how he sounds or how he looks right now. It feels so good and it’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever done with anyone and if Derek keeps crooking his fingers like that – “Close,” Stiles sputters. “Oh, god, fuck, I’m close.” Derek stops moving his fingers, but keeps them inside him and Stiles feels himself flex around the digits and buries his face farther into the sheets because it’s humiliating to be this wrecked and this needy but, god, he doesn’t even care.

“Please fuck me,” he manages through his teeth. “Derek, please.” It’s surreal to finally be in a position where he can ask for things he’s jerked off thinking about for months now.

Derek does something inside him that has Stiles seeing stars and his mouth opens on a silent shout.

“Not done playing with you yet.” Derek says behind him and Stiles moans, can’t help it, as Derek takes his other hand and trails it up the inside of Stiles’ shaking thigh, cups over his balls, and then slowly runs it around Stiles hip to surround Stiles’ wet, aching cock in his fist and just hold. “You ready to come, huh?”

Stiles nods and bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“Right on the edge. Ready to show me what a good little bitch you are?” Derek’s thumb rubs over the head of Stiles’ cock and just that is almost enough.

Stiles chokes out, “Yes, y-yes.”

“You know you’re mine right now. You’ll do what you’re told, won’t you?” Derek says, hand around him still, just holding. “You’re mine.”

Stiles instinctively wants to protest, because he’s never been one to rationally submit completely to anyone or anything unless it was to save someone else. But he bites his tongue.

Deep down there is a strange building need to just let himself enjoy this. For one, he’s probably never going to get this again from Derek after the next few days. He thinks,  _let me be his then. I will have been his for a while at least._  And beyond that even, deeper than Stiles would like to admit to himself just yet, there is a dangerous and dirty thrill in the idea of being physically completely at Derek’s mercy again and again, his pleasure and pain in Derek’s hands, and letting himself trust Derek enough to let him guide him where he needs to be physically now even in this.

Stiles nods again. “I’m yours.” And it sounds far more genuine off his tongue than Stiles would like.

Derek makes a soft grunt as he works his fingers in Stiles ass until Stiles breath is hitching, until the pleasure is so blinding Stiles has to bite the bed to stop from screaming.

“So, when do you come?”

Stiles legs are shaking so hard, dick aching and ready to blow, but Derek isn’t letting him have it. He’s holding his orgasm hostage in the grip of his hand and Stiles grits out, “When you want me too.”

Derek makes a satisfied sound, pulls his fingers put of Stiles’ ass, and positions himself behind Stiles. Stiles feels the blunt press of his cock and clenches his teeth at the slow burn as Derek pushes in. The pain brings Stiles back to himself enough to steer the orgasm back for a minute but as soon a Derek starts up a rhythm of pumping into him, Stiles is useless.

“You’re… fucking… huge.” He manages, still breathless. “Fuck.” He’s on the edge, equal pleasure and pain and the cresting frustration of  _almost._  It feels like he’s been on the edge for years. Derek must have used lube on himself, because he’s moving into Stiles’ with smooth thrusts, every deep stroke into him taking Stiles even closer to a peak he just isn’t allowed to reach and he’s about to start begging if he can’t. It hurts he wants it so bad.

“Not yet.”

Those words.

A sick flash of the fear of the night before flashes through Stiles and panic rises up in his throat like bile. Stiles chokes out a sound as the world dissolves into a strange place, all terror and pain and desperation.

_Oh, god, don’t kill me._

Derek’s right there though, as if Stiles had said it out loud. Maybe he did. Stiles registers he’s on his elbows, feels himself breathing far too fast, and Derek has stilled his hips even if he's still in him. He has his hands spread on Stiles chest and shoulder.

“You here?” Derek says softly. “Come on, Stiles.” Derek is rubbing at his back. “Come back to me. I got you.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, feeling nothing but that cold fear and every place Derek is touching him, the hot stretch of him in his ass.

“We just gotta get through this,” Derek says, voice still unfamiliarly gentle, and warm. He reaches up and places his hand over Stiles’ hand, fingers tentatively lacing through his. Stiles focuses on that, the way Derek’s hand looks next to his. The panic starts to ease. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.” Derek continues to rub at his back. “Do you need me to stop?”

Stiles laughs wearily, sniffling, and wiping away tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. “That sounds like I’d be sentencing you to the worst case of blue balls ever. No, I don’t think I’d do that to you right now.” Stiles sighs then, deep and long. “Both of us know you can’t stop.”

Derek kisses his spine. And just that soft touch already has Stiles body waking to touch, that flipping in his stomach at trusting Derek is not going to hurt him again. That he’d never wanted to hurt him. That he cares enough to make this as painless as he can for him now considering, to make it pleasurable even if he can. Stiles bites his lip because even if this situation is the most fucked up one he’s ever been in, he’s never had someone care enough to try and fix something this bad. He’s never had someone kiss it better like this. And he’s certainly never gotten this close to having what he wants from someone else.

Derek rests his head on Stiles back, and Stiles knows he’s waiting for the word to continue. He’s giving Stiles the control of that and Stiles’ cock is half hard already, whether he’s emotionally raw or not. He can do this.

Stiles raises his ass and swivels it just slightly, hand finding his own cock and fisting it back to life with determination.

“Finish what you started, before I do it myself.”

It’s a dare, a challenge, and he hears the response behind him, completely primal, a low snarling response.

“Show me what an Alpha does when he has control over all that prowess, huh?” Stiles laughs it out drunkenly and then Derek thrusts in so deep Stiles loses his breath. Derek smacks Stiles’ hand away.

“You better not be getting cocky with me already.” Derek growls low, but softly, amused, hand working Stiles’ cock with such a loose grip it’s just a tease. And it seems to be, the more Derek does it, coaxing Stiles’ body to try and race itself to climax by itself to no avail.

Stiles heart is hammering in his chest, pent up frustration making him make desperate garbled half moans into the bed. “Oh my god, you are so fucking cruel,” Stiles grits out.

Derek stops stroking entirely, whispers into the nape of his neck so that Stiles can feel lips and breath and sharp teeth, “Oh, you have no idea.”

Stiles’ whole body tenses and he grasps the sheets, hears tearing. He feels his need changing, turning into feral demand. He feels it in chest before he hears it – he growls low and deep and soft.

Derek pushes in to the hilt, places himself flush against Stiles’ back to whisper into Stiles’ ear, rough and half-turned, “I heard that.”

Stiles tongues at his teeth, feels the sharp cut of fangs there instead, the rush in his body intoxicating and strong. Fuck.

“You gonna try and fight for it, Stiles?”

Stiles heaving breaths sound like an animal’s as he pants but he shakes his head, hips uselessly pumping like a dog in heat. He lets go of the shredded sheets.

“That’s good.” Derek shifts himself and starts fucking Stiles in earnest, “Growl for me again, baby.” Derek’s hand loosens and starts a quick sure flicking pull over Stiles’ cock. Stiles’ moan turns into a low growl that resonates through his whole body and, fuck, he’s gonna lose it, he’s going to come. There is no way to hold this back. “That’s good,” he says again but Derek’s voice is tight, his hips stuttering, and Stiles can feel Derek’s close too. God, it’s too much.

“Come for me now, Stiles.” Derek orders soft and tense, hand working Stiles unbearably fast. “Come on.” And that’s all it takes, Stiles is gone. He chokes out a sound, climax a burning white peak that is over far too fast and yet not soon enough because he’s gasping for breath. He feels Derek’s grip around him grow wet and filthy, hears Derek now hitching moans behind him as he comes, the thrusts into Stiles slicker and slower and deep. Stiles feels himself begin to drop off into warm, fuzzy oblivion but then Derek is holding onto him with wet hands, pulling Stiles’ spent body back onto his cock until Stiles is actually sitting up on Derek’s lap, as Derek pulses hot into him, tense shudder every few moments.

Derek has his face nuzzled into Stiles’ neck, mouth and nose right over the bite now no more than an indentation. It’s almost like a kiss. He grunts as he pulses deep into Stiles again and then murmurs into his skin finally, breathlessly, “You okay?”

Stiles leans his head back, lets Derek’s face touch his. “Yeah, I’m okay.” And he is right now. He feels relaxed and warm and held. Derek’s cock is still pumping seed deep into him. Stiles can feel it trickling out with each momentary shift of Derek’s hips. He catches his breath as Derek continues letting his body purge every drop into Stiles. “That was good,” Stiles admits. “That was, despite my freak out… actually really, really… outstandingly good.” There’s a huff of breath behind him that could be a laugh and Stiles clenches once more just to feel this, to feel Derek deep in him like this. “I might be getting the hang of this whole not being a virgin anymore thing.” Stiles blushes. He’s running his mouth, but he’s so tired the words just keep falling out. Derek mouths at Stiles shoulder, hand running leisurely up the length of Stiles stomach, strong fingers teasing over his skin and Stiles sighs as Derek carefully leans him forward, leads them both down to the bed, cock still buried deep and sure inside him.

Stiles sleeps deeper than he ever has in his life.

He sleeps until the dreams turn to darkness, until there is nothing.

 

“Come on, Stiles. Stiles!”

Stiles gasps, water flooding his mouth. He coughs, feels his fists hitting weakly at something soft and then he’s gripping hard at skin focusing to breathe, breathe.

He’s in the shower. It’s dark, but when his eyes focus he can see the dawn, purplish and gold, from the window behind Derek.

He feels more than hears his choked gasps, and then feels the heat burning through him white hot, like his whole body is on fire.

“Hot,” grits out, closing his eyes to the light, focuses on the cold of the bathtub rim against his cheek, the pattern of sensation the water is making on his skin.

“Yeah.” There is a calming coolness on his forehead, Derek’s hand wiping it. “Cooling you down. Okay.” Stiles could be imagining the tremor in his voice. “Thought I lost you for a second.”

Stiles opens his eyes briefly to look up at Derek, who’s pale now even in the dark. The hand moves to Stiles’ neck and Stiles sighs. It’s a very nice feeling to have Derek’s hands on him like that, careful and caring. Stiles laughs weakly. “Let’s not get all mushy about it or anything.” Surprisingly Derek’s hand stays where it is. Stiles swallows, throat feeling raw. “How much longer?”

Derek starts up that smoothing pet on his head again and even when Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles relaxes into it. Stiles suddenly feels so heavy and so comfortable he doesn’t care.

“Feels nice,” he mumbles.

Derek keeps petting. “The water?”

“You.”

There is a slight hesitation and then an exhale above him and Derek smooths his fingers through Stiles’ hair. Despite the comfort of it a cold fear runs through him as the last few moments clarify.

“Did I pass out?”

Derek slows the rhythm of his hand, says slowly, “You were delirious,” he moves his hand down to the back of Stiles’ neck, his shoulders. “You were fighting against me. I tried to wake you up and then you went limp and stopped breathing.”

Stiles’ heart drops, tries to focus on being here and still with the living. He shivers.

“You’re going to be okay.”

Stiles nods because he knows he has to believe he can get through this or he won’t. He might not anyway, but he definitely won’t survive if he gives up.

A long moment passes where the world seems to just become Derek and the water on him and the floaty feeling of fever.

He bites his lip.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

Derek seems caught off-guard, but answers, “What?”

“Say I don’t make it through this,” he glances up. “Could you figure out a way to make sure no one gets blamed for what happened to me?”

Derek regards him stonily and then relaxes with a small roll of his eyes. “A completely humiliating way that makes your death look like a self-inflicted sexual accident, you mean?”

“Exactly,” Stiles says with a small chuckle. “Wait, was that a joke? Did big, bad Alpha just make a joke to make me feel better? Awww, Derek.”

“Shut up.”

“Derek, that was nice.”

“Enough.”

Derek starts to help him to his feet and Stiles wobbles like a newborn giraffe. He mutters curses. They’re still both naked from earlier and this whole thing is just so surreal, “It’s like I’m waking up to a wet dream,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek actually laughs. “This is your wet dream? Just when I think I have a handle on how weird you are…”

“Hey, we’re both naked and wet, sue me,” Stiles says, stumbling against Derek. He feels considerably better but for the ache deep in his bones that doesn’t want to quit.

Derek helps him into a set of pajamas. Stiles starts, exclaims, “It’s morning.”

Derek looks up at him questioning. “So?”

“It’s Monday!” Stiles elaborates more frantically. “I’ve got school.”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

“You let the other Betas go to school,” Stiles protests.

Derek gets him into his shoes. “The other Betas weren’t turning while being bred non-stop to the point of exhaustion.”

“Not the time to talk dirty.”

“I’m not. I’m taking you back to your house where you will be ‘sick’ until I direct you further, understand?”

No. Not okay. Stiles holds the annoyance in his mouth like bees for a minute. “I know you have your agenda as an Alpha or whatever, but I should be allowed to still have mine. I want to go to college and eventually meet someone and have a house and a job and kids and I have a test toda—“

Derek places a hand around Stiles’ jaw, rough and angry and then eases slightly as Derek breathes through the outburst. “It would be wise to not talk about yourself involved with other people like that until I’m past this.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. He should have thought of that.

“Shoes.”

Stiles ties his laces.

 

The drive back is quiet. Dawn is touching everything with clean, fresh light. Stiles opens the window and breathes in and can identify at least six things he didn’t know you could actually smell.

“The heat is easing off, but,” Derek says and then looks over and says, “Hey, are you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m going to let you have some time to heal and rest. As much as I can anyway. I haven’t checked on the others in two days and since they haven’t come looking... yeah.”

Stiles nods as if he completely understands the responsibilities of an Alpha. Which he most definitely does not have a clue about, but whatever.

“Do  _not_  exert yourself.” Derek looks away from the road to glare. “I mean it, Stiles.”

They pull up a block away from Stiles’ house and Stiles steps out.

Before Stiles can wave goodbye Derek grabs the baggy hoody Stiles is he guesses borrowing from Derek, the tug gentle though. Derek’s eyes are concerned and for a second Stiles lets that do whatever it wants with his heart. “If anything comes up, you’ll call me.”

It’s not a question. Stiles responds instantly. “Of course.” Derek puts his hands back on the wheel visibly relieved and drives away.

 

Stiles has always been good at sneaking in and out of his house, even when mom was still alive he’d sneak out when Scott had a new game they’d been waiting to play but it was a school night, or there was a meteor shower, or Stiles had scandalously snuck a bottle of Jack out of the liquor cabinet. That night ended in puke though. Either way, he can sneak in and out of his house undetected with a pretty high success rate thus far.

He goes for the upstairs bathroom window this time, quick glance to make sure the coast is clear then tosses his bag in and climbs through. He’s really enjoying the extra stealth he’s got going for himself now. No sound at all.

He turns on the shower for a good three minutes.

“Stiles, if you’re just getting in the shower now, you’re going to be late,” Stiles’ dad calls up the stairs. “Come on, son.”

Stiles turns the water off, relieved. “Just rinsing off!” He calls back, runs wet hands through his hair, and makes his way to his room.

He’s about to call down to his dad to say he thinks he’s getting sick, but can’t do it. Part of it is annoyance at Derek’s bossy attitude, but really most of it is he really wants to see Scott. He needs to talk to a friend. A friend who understands.

And he wasn’t lying about that test.

Stiles slips into a clean set of clothes, runs his hands tentatively over the harder flesh of his abdomen, and inspects himself in the mirror, notices the way he seems taller and kind of fills out his shirt now. He’s actually got some muscle. He glances in the mirror once more on the way out the door as he grabs the keys to the Jeep.

Hell.

Even if he feels like he could spin out of control at any moment, at least he looks good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 16, 2016
> 
> Hello there! I wanted to first of all thank you all so much for the wonderful comments, bookmarks, and kudos. It is a really good feeling and I am truly sorry for my delay in getting you the next parts of this story in a timely manner. New chapters are on their way to polishing up and should be posted in the next few days! I'm really excited about them, and looking forward to what you all think.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this one.
> 
> In the mean time if you want, I am [on tumblr](http://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi! :D
> 
> xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes to school despite Derek's insistence that he should not. It goes both better and worse than expected.

Going to school is surreal to put it mildly.

Stiles pulls up, puts the Jeep in park, and takes a few deep breaths. It can be like any other day, he tells himself, if he wants it to. Any other day he’s come to school with a fever or severely hung over (and that was once, and never repeated).  He’s made it through days of school where he’s had less than four hours of sleep for three days. He can do this.

And if he can’t? Well, that’s when he’ll go home. Easy peasy.

A whistle from a car passing. Stiles looks to see what pretty girl has mistakenly walked close enough to him to get that unfortunate attention, but he’s the only one in the vicinity. Oh.

He walks a little faster, keeps his eyes carefully down.

“Taller?” Lydia asks and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin.

“What?”

“You seem taller,” she says and leans slightly, tilting her head, and Stiles, besides being a little dumbstruck by the compliment, tries to remember if Lydia seems different in relation. It’s hard to tell with her in heels.

“Oh. Thanks?” he replies, but she’s sashayed past him, the click click of her heels following her.

Stiles walks on in amazement as person after person who two days ago would have run into him without apology or acknowledgement… Is he imagining them now giving him the once over? Eye contact? He gets a wink from that beauty queen senior, Jessica, and almost right after, Danny pats him on the shoulder and says he’s looking forwards to seeing him on the field today.

Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot up. Oh, yeah, lacrosse practice. He’d completely forgot.

Danny blushes and smiles as he stumbles off. “See you there.”

“Yeah.” Stiles works on his combination lock on his locker, heartbeat in his throat from the unexpected attention and contact. What the hell is happening?

Scott is suddenly right beside Stiles, so close Stiles can smell him. But to be fair he can smell a lot more now; Scott’s got Allison’s perfume all over him from a recent hug, and a little lip gloss too, a cloyingly sweet a sort of cupcake scent adding itself to the coffee on Scott’s breath - which is unusual for Scott. Means he probably didn’t get much sleep. Stiles holds his breath as he gets the scent of something else too, acidic and bodily – stress. Stiles doesn’t want to think about how worried Scott’s been but he can’t help it when he can actually smell it all over him. Add to that guilt that whatever emotional reaction Stiles was expecting from Scott, he’d underestimated how depressed Scott would look. And though in Stiles’s head this hypothetical exchange – support from his best friend in the world – had gotten him out the door this morning to begin with, now faced with the real thing he feels a keen desire to hide from everyone, including Scott. Scott’s feelings emanate off him in waves. How the hell is it even fair that Stiles can smell pity?

“Hey.” Scott’s face is drained from worry, eyes scanning all over Stiles’ expression, taking him in. The quick uptick of Scott’s eyebrows and the smallest shift away when their eyes meet gives away too much. Stiles goes back to casually avoiding eye contact. It’s pretty defeating to sense your friend horrified by whatever is happening to you.

“Hey,” Stiles says and manages a smile. He knows he looks tired too, he’s sure, but he’s not feeling as completely exhausted now as he was a few hours ago. “How’s it going?”

Scott couldn’t look worse for all Stiles’ seeming nonchalance. “Are you, I mean. Are you okay?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve had better weekends.” Stiles steps back from Scott’s questioning advance into his space and busies himself with his books in his locker. He can’t bear looking at Scott like this; he’ll lie his ass off if it makes Scott look less like the world is on his shoulders. “Listen, it’s really not that bad. We even have more in common now, right? We can touch base on our cycles, you know, like girls. We can share coping techniques. On the full moon you can chain me up like I know you’ve always wanted to.” He’s running his mouth to try and laugh it off, and it’s bad, it’s not funny. Everything comes out slightly bitter on his tongue.

“Stiles,” Scott says softly, pleading, and puts his hand on Stiles’ elbow.

Stiles leans into his locker for a moment. Scott is too good at this big brother stuff, really. How did an only child get this good? Stiles closes his locker by putting his weight against it.

“Listen,” he whispers, and Scott reflexively moves into his space to hear him. He’s facing Stiles now, close enough to feel his heat. It feels intimate and familiar, the way they fall into something like brothers. “It doesn’t have to be bad,” Stiles continues quietly. “I can be brave too.”

“I know,” Scott says, equally hushes, but forceful. “Damn it, Stiles, I know you’re brave. I’m just… I’m worried.”

Stiles regards him and let’s his guard down a bit finally, not realizing how far he’d had it up until now. The thing is Scott an incredibly good friend on top of being a good person. Stiles looks back at Scott, to the kind of loyal gaze some people probably don’t even find in a spouse and Stiles feels a warm hopeful feeling settling in him for a moment, right before Scott leans in and gives him and enormous hug.

Stiles hugs him back. He’s not going to cry damn it, even though he feels the need tensing up in his chest. Scott’s right to be worried. Stiles is beyond annoyed that he is a person who warrants that concern right now, especially from someone so notoriously selfless, but he is, and he should let Scott be who he is and look out for him. He needs someone who knows what’s going on and cares. The comfort of knowing he has Scott in the same situation is a really good feeling actually, as it sinks in. He matters to Scott more than he realizes a lot of the time. Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath as they part, and feels a small smile tug at his mouth. “Thanks.”

Another concerned look passes over Scott’s face along with a creeping blush. “Are you, uh, are you still… sore?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles exclaims and walks past him towards their first class.

Scott runs up beside him. “I’m sorry! I can just… _smell_ him all over you.”

Stiles laughs with little humor. “He’d probably like that.”

Scott makes a disgusted sound beside him as they walk. “Okay, okay, sorry I asked.”

 

In class the History test goes moderately smooth. Stiles expects he passed as he puts down his pencil and rests his mildly dizzy head in his hands. Scott taps his shoulder, shrugs and mouths, _You okay?_ Stiles waves it off kindly, whispers, “I’m good.”

He sees Scott double take in his peripheral though, and then feels Scott put the back of his hand against the place on Stiles’ shoulder and then moves it to Stiles’ neck.

Stiles shifts away, hisses, “What are you doing?”

“You’re really hot.”

When Stiles turns to face him, Scott’s worried face looks so much like Scott’s mom’s, Stiles almost laughs. It would be funny, if Scott’s grip on his pencil wasn’t so tight.

“It’s normal, dude. You remember,” Stiles whispers. “Really I’m okay.”

He knows Scott wants to argue that, but he huffs behind Stiles and lets it go. The smell of stress coming off Scott is so sour, it’s starting to turn Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles is feeling a little fever giddy by second period.  At one point when he’s getting up to collect a graded paper from the front of the class, he sways so much he almost falls onto the desk of that one girl with blue hair. The teacher asks if he needs to go to the nurse. He asks if he can go to the bathroom instead and he’s given the pass.

His limbs have that floaty feeling that comes from a fever tipped from mild to triple digits, where it stops hurting and starts feeling kind of good. He remembers about a year back when he had a fever that just kept climbing, where at 103.1 degrees Dad had to lift the mug of tea he brought him to Stiles’ mouth, after Stiles had laughed helplessly at how his arms were too weak to lift a darn coffee cup. The fear of illness had been gone, brain fried to inebriation.

Stiles wonders now – will this be the last time he experiences something like illness? It’s kind of a weird thing to grieve, but letting go of something you never thought you’d lose is still strangely sad. It’s a very oddly familiar grief though, almost like having to move or change schools. It’s not the first time Stiles has had to place a pin in his life that marked a “before” and an “after,” where things were never the same again. He’s gotten kind of good at this, if you can get good at loss. It’s made him appreciate things much more, and in some cases recognize that things go away no matter how permanent they seem.

When Stiles ducks into the restroom, the smell of hundreds of different teenage boys’ urine hit him all at once and he gags, running to the toilet only to hover, waiting for whatever might be in him to come up. But after a moment he adjusts, his stomach relaxes and his gag reflex calms as he breathes deeply, heart pounding. He closes the stall door and sits down on the toilet.

Maybe he should go home. He’d never admit it, but Derek was right - it is actually pretty stupid to be attempting to do anything other than lie in bed right now with how he’s feeling.

He jumps as his phone buzzes in his pocket. Speak of the devil: it’s Derek.

_Where are you?_

A cold thrill runs up Stiles’ spine, fear and excitement and dread. He’s a good enough liar, sure. Okay so he’s not a good liar, he’s just got a vivid imagination and that’s gotten him out of a few pinches. But formulating a response here is tactical. Does Derek know he’s not at home? What kind of response should he make to guarantee Derek doesn’t come looking for him either way?

He types. Sends.

_Miss me?_

And Stiles smirks, can’t help it, as it’s delivered. He’s having better sex than most people probably ever have in their lives maybe and with this guy - he figures he’s allowed to tease him a little.

Buzz. _Where??_

Shit. Stiles has a bad feeling Derek needs something Stiles is in no position to give right now.

_In the bathroom. How can I help you?_

It’s not a lie really and Stiles notes that as a point if it comes down to an argument later.

_You’re not at home._

“Shit,” he mutters. He’s running out of moves.

_Aren’t I?_

There’s a long moment with no response and Stiles feels his heartrate climbing thinking of Derek in his home, looking for him.

_You’re lying_

_How would you know?_ Stiles returns.

_Because I’m outside your house and I can’t hear you in there._

Stiles swallows, feels a throbbing in his groin at the thought and why the hell is that sexy? Derek keeping tabs on him like a creepy stalker was not an expected kink.

_You got me._

Derek sends the next text almost instantly.

_Where??_

Stiles tries to steady his breathing as he texts with shaking fingers.

_I had a really important test. I couldn’t afford to skip it. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you to understand._

He feels sick as soon as he sends it, but thrilled too. He sits in the stall staring at the surrounding walls like somehow they’re a panic room, until he realizes he’s going to miss the end of class if he doesn’t hurry. He closes his phone and pushes it into his pocket.

Something about telling Derek off is getting more and more satisfying, but is equally making this situation one he’s not sure he understands the dynamics of. That is, if he ever had much of a handle on him and Derek as a duo in any way.

Stiles feels the world tilt and sway a bit as he stands and leaves the stall, door creaking behind him as he goes to the sink. He splashes his face with water and then catches himself in the mirror. Okay, so he looks kind of sick, but it’s not completely hiding that he looks like way more of a stud than he ever has in his life. He’s toned and slim but not skinny. His skin looks clear. His hair even looks kind of okay for once. He takes a deep breath and tries to count down the hours he has left before he can drive home and collapse. If he can make it through half a day for a test, he can make it through the rest. A kind of vindictive feeling simmers in him as he thinks of Derek’s texts. Stiles is his own person and he can do what he wants. He wants to get through this day. He can do this. He heads back to class.

His phone buzzes twice as he walks back, but Stiles ignores it. He’s really not looking forward to the mood Derek’s going to be in later, or the lecture he’s going to get for going against Alpha’s Orders, but whatever. He’s got his own priorities. He’s not someone who chose this road to escape a shittier life like the other Betas. He could have gone right on living his crap life without superpowers. As far as he’s concerned, for now, old crap life’s priorities still stand. He’s still going to graduate High School and maybe even get into a good college and become someone who makes a decent amount of money at a job where he gets to wear a suit every day. Being a werewolf won’t change that.

He makes it back to class right before the bell rings. As he’s walking to the locker room later for practice, he feels his phone buzz again and he pulls it out. Two missed texts from Derek and one from Scott. He opens Scott’s.

_Did you go home?_

Stiles replies, _Nah, on my way to Lacrosse._

Stiles opens Derek’s texts then without thinking too much about it.

_Unbelievable._

_I need to see you._

Stiles stops walking. His heart twinges. He really hates how long he stares at those little words, how much he hates that he read them as something they certainly don’t mean. A clearer text would be that Derek needs to _use_ him. He doesn’t need to see him for any of the same fluttery reasons Stiles feels under his breastbone right now. And the terrible realization of just how fucked Stiles is over Derek, how much Stiles wants this to be something it isn’t, has him shoving the phone into his pocket and walking that much faster to the locker room.

He changes quickly into his uniform, feeling eyes on him and he knows, can sense interest. It’s all new and unsettling.

“I don’t want to make you feel weird in the locker room or anything,” Danny says next to him, and Stiles looks over briefly as he’s securing his elbow guards. “But you look really good today. Are you, like, juicing or something?” Danny laughs, the words bright, and Stiles actually has his mouth hanging open for a minute because it hits him suddenly – holy shit, Danny is actually flirting with him.

“Uh, um, no,” Stiles says, offers a smile. “Still eating solid food like an adult.”

Danny laughs again, and – Stiles made him laugh. He feels his cheeks heat. Danny’s always been way out of his league, but, yeah, of course Stiles has thought about it. The guy is gorgeous.

“Well, keep it up,” Danny says and he pats Stiles’ shoulder as he rises and makes his way out to the field.

Stiles turns to see if anyone else saw that exchange, and finds Scott on the bench behind looking straight at him, open mouthed smile of amused disbelief. Stiles gives an over the top nonchalant shrug, and then laughs it off.

On the field, Stiles is on fire. He scores goal after swift goal, blocks several, all the while Coach yelling his shock and awe as if he’s offended by the sudden improvement.

“Who are you and what the hell have you done with Stilinski?” he calls over the sound of running feet on turf, the swoop of another shot made from Stiles past Danny as goalie.

Danny makes a point to make full body contact with Stiles often when they switch him out to the field, either in defensive checks during their time opposing, or in congratulations when they’re scrimmaging on the same team. His Armani cologne washes over Stiles every time and Stiles can’t help the rush he’s getting from Danny showing this much attention to him, touching him like he wants to.

Stiles is giddy as he walks back to the defense line. He wonders if the fever is still going, because he feels so alive right now it’s hard to tell. He looks over to Scott who gives him a huge smile, but his line of sight quickly goes to Jackson, who briefly glares daggers in his direction. Wow. Being aware of being competition is a new feeling too, equal parts validating and sour.

He startles when a gloved hand hits his shoulder. “When?” Isaac asks in his ear, hand still heavy on him.

Stiles turns and feels something click, a strange sense of familiarity that he normally does not associate with Isaac. They are part of a pack though, so it fits, but he didn’t expect it to be this sudden, instinctive sensation. Isaac is suddenly much more important to Stiles, protectiveness and comfort hitting him right in the chest in reaction to being so close.

“Does it matter?” Stiles responds and then confusion passes over Isaac’s face. Isaac leans in and smells at Stiles gently, his eyes widening.

“He’s… with you?” Isaac whispers, reverently but embarrassed too.

Stiles glances down the field and feels himself flush all the way down his neck. “Uh, yeah,” he replies, “For the heat.”

Isaac nods, and the movement wafts Isaacs sent towards him. Stiles smells a lot of things there – unease, embarrassment, maybe a little jealousy.

Stiles changes the subject, as he adjusts his grip on his stick. He feels slightly stronger close to Isaac too. It’s incredible. “He was looking for you and the others. Said it had been quiet.”

“Yeah, Boyd said.” Isaac is still inspecting Stiles and it’s driving Stiles a little crazy. “Everything’s okay. Just a lot of homework.”

Stiles actually laughs. He bends over and laughs, expelling a large amount of tension he didn’t know he was holding onto.

There’s sound down the field, Coach yelling about how he’s gonna shoot himself if another one of them breaks their stick. It breaks them out of their conversational bubble enough that they spread apart from each other to focus on the game. But the interaction leaves Stiles fumbling through a load of new emotions. The benefits of a pack had only made sense in theory before, and here he was feeling that connection firsthand, noticing the boost of strength and focus there in him, waiting. The feeling of family.

It makes him consider the way he feels without Derek. He figured being heart sore was just his deal, but maybe they all feel something like this – some sort of longing to be close to the protector. If Stiles has been signed up for a lifetime of that feeling, he’s going to be even more pissed with Derek than he is already.

Coach blows his whistle and yells, “Hit the showers, you animals” to close out practice. Stiles pulls off his helmet and sees Danny heading his way, making eye contact with him as he nears.

“Nice moves,” Danny says as he walks over. “What was that drift thing you did back there?” He mimics the way Stiles had literally glided on the wet grass to avoid his stick earlier. “You have got to teach me that sometime.”

Stiles feels the blush on his cheeks, shakes his head. “Can’t give away all my tricks when I’ve just started not completely sucking, right?”

Danny breathes out a kind laugh. “Alright.” And then softer, more privately, but still casual, “Hey are you busy Friday?”

“Huh?” Stiles must have misheard.

“Uh,” Danny rubs the back off his neck. “I just got my entertainment center set up at our new place and I wondered if you wanted to watch some movies or something.”

Oh my god, Stiles thinks. He’s being asked out. He is literally getting approached for a date. By someone he likes. Someone hot and who, apparently miraculously likes him and wants to hang out with him. Outside of school. For a date.

This revelation seems to take a while to compute because Danny starts looking a little put out on the other end.

“Or, you know, it’s no big deal—“

“No!” Stiles interrupts. “No, I mean, yes! I mean, I want to.”

Danny turns his head and helps. “But?”

Stiles chews his lip, thinks about Derek, thinks about how the heat will inevitably end, and Stiles will be as unattached as he ever was.

“No ‘buts’,” Stiles says and then fumbles with, “Well, not ‘no butts’—oh, god, shut me up.” He pulls his hand out of his glove and puts his hand over his face.

“I hope to.” Danny says and winks before heading off, calling behind. “Pick you up at 6.”

Stiles stands dumbfounded until Scott walks over and says, ‘Did what I think happened, just happen?”

“Pinch me.”

“Danny asked you out?” Scott grabs his shoulder and shakes him, apparently a big fan of this whole series of events. Stiles, on the other hand, is still catching up.

“I cannot believe this.”

“This is great!” Scott pats him on the back emphatically, then frowns. “Wait, but you’re dating Derek.”

Stiles lets out a loud and hugely unamused one syllable laugh. “No, I’m not.” It doesn’t feel right when he says it, even if it’s true. “It’s pretty hard to be unfaithful when you’re just a surrogate mate. I could be an unfortunate Fleshlight, for all this means.”

Scott’s frowning even deeper now. “Are you sure rushing into seeing Danny is okay – I mean for you, though?”

“No! No, nothing is okay!” Stiles says, throwing his hands up. “But it is what it is. And for once I might have a date. A normal, flirt stupid, make out on the couch date.” A night where I’m not reading into everything for something that’s not there and never will be, he thinks, but keeps to himself.

Scott concedes in as much as he’s quiet for a minute as they walk, but Stiles can sense Scott battling the conflict he’s feeling, werewolf senses be damned.

“You seem to be feeling better,” he says finally, obviously mustering as much positive supportive energy into the words as he can, which isn’t much; he bunches his fists at his sides.

“Yeah, much actually,” Stiles says, calming down only to have his pulse go right back up when Scott halts Stiles with an arm across his chest, and Derek is there, standing at the edge of the field, eyeing Stiles with so much charged intent Scott lets out his breath too.

“Jeeze, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, and sounds honestly kind of disturbed. It would be funny if Stiles wasn’t already feeling his body light up at the sight of Derek, that potent gaze that makes him feel like he’s already being undressed.

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles says breathlessly. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Are you sure?” Scott makes it a point to get into Stiles’ line of sight.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go.” Stiles says. “Really it’s fine.”

Scott gives him a look that is more chiding than anything he could have said.

“I’m tired, and I mean… do you really want to argue with _that?_ ” He motions and he knows Derek can probably hear him, and it’s rude, but at this point, he doesn’t really care.

“Not particularly,” Scott replies honestly. “I kind of want to punch him though.”

Stiles smirks. “It’s gonna be fine,” he insists and pats Scott on the chest. Scott responds to the gesture and words with a severely incredulous look. He must be able to smell the arousal on Stiles by now, and Stiles is embarrassed by it, but his body is being very clear about how it feels about Derek’s proximity.

Scott hesitates, jaw tight, glaring at Derek. “I don’t like this.” And Stiles is beginning to wonder if any of them are ever going to leave this field.

“Hey, I know,” Stiles says genuinely. He feels bad he’s putting Scott through any more stress – the kid doesn’t know how to _not_ be the most protective friend you could ever hope for – but Stiles knows himself enough to know he knows what he wants to do right now. And Stiles isn’t scared of Derek the way he used to be. Not in the same way. “I know you don’t like it, but really, I’ll be okay.” Stiles puts his hand on Scott’s elbow and finally gets Scott to look him in the eyes with a gentle shake. “Hey. I’ll text you.”

Scott glances back at Derek again, mouth pinched, deliberating, and finally sucks in his breath and raises one pointed finger. “You text me every hour, on the hour, or I come looking.”

“Every two hours.”

“Fine.” Scott hugs him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says as Scott turns to leave, and catches with delight the most epic stink eye Scott throws at Derek and he walks off.

Stiles makes his way over to Derek with a cool gait that comes more and more naturally.

“So how long you been waiting there?”

Derek uncrosses his arms and points accusingly. “You are so unbelievably stupid.”

“Great to see you too.”

“I told you not to go to school. I told you to rest.” That finger has now stopped pointing at Stiles and is now emphatically touching on Derek’s other palm like the words are written there.

“And I told you I have a life,” Stiles retorts tightly.

“Did you conveniently forget you nearly died last night? That you stopped breathing in my arms?” There’s a slight tremor in those last few words and it sinks in for Stiles just how right Derek is about that, and how much it sounds like he’s really upset. And that hurts way more than Stiles was expecting.  Derek was scared for him. Guilt pours in.

“Okay,” Stiles reasons softly. “Okay, I’m sorry, okay?” He sets his helmet down in the grass, his gloves down next to it, and moves in, does it without thinking and watches what that does to Derek, notes how Derek moves towards him too, magnetic but holding himself together enough to control any move to touch him. Stiles reaches out instead, putting his hand over Derek’s hand and Derek relaxes visibly almost instantly.

“Hard day, huh?” Stiles says, feeling Derek’s pulse quicken even from the simple touch. The heat’s obviously still very much making itself known, even if it’s not at the pitch it’s been at the last two days, and Stiles feels guilty again thinking of how the separation must grate on Derek, how much he must be needing release now.

“You’re incorrigible.” Derek breathes out, eyes closed.

Stiles laughs. “True.” He takes that same hand of Derek’s with both of his and massages it the way his mom used to. He’s not sure why he feels so tender all of a sudden, but it stirs something completely different in Stiles to see Derek so simultaneously at the mercy of his biology, so nervous about reaching out to Stiles, and worried about Stiles’ wellbeing all at once. And Stiles does feel bad about being callous with Derek when it’s clear now that Derek seeking Stiles out when Stiles was being defiant isn’t a power play, Derek is actually emotionally invested. Which is something else, really.

Derek sways and breathes deeply, relaxing into the touch even more. Stiles kneads at the heel of Derek’s palm gently, remembers their last conversation and the conversation with Isaac and asks, “I saw Isaac. How’s the pack?” Derek makes a soft sound in reply that’s enough of an affirmative, Stiles says soothingly, “That’s good.” Derek looks up, eyes soft and Stiles returns that gentleness. “I’m sorry I made you worry, I really am.”

Derek takes him in, looks him up and down like he’s satisfied that Stiles is actually as okay as he seems, but his relaxed expression is quickly turning into something else, gaze shifting to desirous and hungry. Stiles lets go of his hand and picks up his gear. “Let’s go.”

Derek turns and starts walking off the green, Stiles close beside.

Stiles doesn’t mention that he’s left his clothes in his locker, doesn’t ask whether they’re going to have to drive to wherever they’re going separately since he drove his Jeep here this morning. They walk side by side and Stiles drinks up the tension that growing, the prickling heat he feels in the space between them. He can smell the musk on Derek, the fresh arousal on his skin, his breath, can smell the hot, virile places of him even feet away. They walk casually though, and the thought of how much Derek is barely holding back, how he knows they are moments from enough of a less open space for Derek to tear him apart, has Stiles’ half closing his eyes for a moment with a pang of want he can feel to his bones. Jesus.

Stiles tries to keep his words as casual as possible as they’re passing the Gym Building, “So, uh, your place, or?” and Derek slows for a second. Stiles waits beside him, not sure what the pause is for, or whether he’s said something wrong, before Derek breaks and turns, roughly grabs Stiles around the neck with both hands.

It’s close enough to a choke that Stiles instinctively drops his helmet and gloves to the ground, breathes in, and reaches up to claw at Derek’s grip as Derek pushes them both through the doors close by.

“Bathroom,” Derek grits out, walking Stiles backwards down the blessedly empty side hall. It’s a question, but doesn’t sound anything like one.

Stiles points with one hand behind him and to the right and Derek pushes them on, one hand still on Stiles neck, the other gripping a handful of his jersey at the waist. Stiles is thrumming head to toe, adrenaline sending what was mild arousal now to some place beyond reasonable thought. Derek could take him right here and he’d let him.

The bathroom is also unoccupied and echoes Derek’s growl as he pushes Stiles to the line of sinks, cold hard porcelain hitting Stiles at the hip. Stiles thanks his stars that no one is here, and prays no one walks in now, because he doesn’t know what Derek would do if so. He knows Derek is going to take this all the way. He steadies himself with his hands on either side of the sink and hears his own breathing, fast and panicked, as Derek grabs his ass, pulls Stiles head up by the hair at the nape of his neck, so he’s forced to look at himself in the mirror there and Derek’s feral half-lidded expression behind.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you turn.” He whispers into Stiles’ ear, around fangs already out. Stiles whimpers. “And you’re going to watch it happen.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles manages, wrecked already, knees going weak. Derek reaches down the front of Stiles’ lacrosse shorts, rough fingers dragging over the tender skin of Stiles’ lower stomach, and wraps his hand around Stiles’ aching erection. Derek works him swiftly, sure and strong strokes that have Stiles biting his lip to stop the sounds he can’t help but make. And, holy shit, he’s so close already; he’s still new at this. He’s still too sensitive. But just as his mouth opens on the first touches of that feeling of the brink, Derek slows his pace. Stiles feels the hunger ripping him apart, a low needy growl in his throat, and Derek licks at his neck, purrs, “Come on, baby. Let’s see those teeth.”

Stiles looks up at himself in the mirror, sees his eyes flash yellow, and his stomach drops. He sucks in his breath which turns around to a moan. It’s still so shocking, and yet absolutely undeniably sexy to see himself lose control like this. “Yeah, that’s it. Let’s see.”

Stiles reaches a trembling hand up to his own mouth, pulls his upper lip to the side, and lets out a low needy sound at the sight - that sharp new line of fangs a frightening and yet wondrous thing. Derek huffs a sound between a laugh and a sigh behind him, rhythmic and astounded, and ruts against Stiles, pressure of his fully hard cock rocking against the cleft of Stiles ass through his shorts. Oh, and it’s too much to see this happening to himself and feel what it’s doing to Derek at the same time. “So beautiful,” Derek says, shaken but reverent, and pulls down Stiles’ shorts, places his spit-wet fingers to Stiles entrance, a warning and a promise too.

Anyone could walk in and see this, could see them like _this_ , and that thought too has Stiles edging as Derek’s fingers hesitate there on the threshold of Stiles’ body. Stiles chokes out, “Fuck, Derek, do I have to beg you?” and hisses in surprise and pain as his new fangs cut at the inside of his cheeks. He licks at the copper taste there. When he looks up, he sees the blood stain the spit on his lips a grotesquely seductive crimson.

Derek shakes his head at the question, heavy lidded and drunken. And just like that, he’s got two fingers in him and Stiles crumples forward to muffle the scream in his arm, bumping into the mirror and panting as the he battles the pain, as he waits until the feeling starts to turn to that sweet pull with every new movement, as his body relaxes enough to accept the intrusion, and eventually, oh, yes, eventually starts asking for more, demanding it.

“Please…” Stiles whimpers, reaching back to find Derek’s hip. ‘Please give it to me.” He wants Derek inside him so badly it hurts. Derek leans back slightly and spits a few times down at Stiles’ ass and the warm saliva drips down, making the glide of Derek’s fingers smooth and deliberate. Derek spits again and Stiles whimpers as Derek hums like he’s pleased with his work. “Please, I’m ready. I can take it,” Stiles grits out miserably, and tries to count down from one hundred in his head. Stiles knows the prep is necessary, but much more of this and he’s going to come just from the sensations Derek is wringing out of him, the thoughts of how it must look, the hunger to be full of Derek’s cock, how familiar and good it feels to be held while Derek is losing himself inside him completely.

“Derek,” he tries again, hand gripping urgently at Derek from behind, pulling at him to get closer, to get in, because he’s really, _really_ close to coming now and oh, god, if Derek keeps hitting at that spot Stiles is going to lose it before Derek’s even begun. And he wants. He wants enough to fight for it. He’s ravenous. “Derek, _gonna_ —” Derek grabs Stiles’ hand that’s grabbing at his hip with the hand that isn’t currently occupied inside Stiles, and expertly twists Stiles’ arm behind Stiles back and holds it there. Stiles yelps, more from surprise than from pain, and hears the edges of a warning growl in his own throat in response. Derek pulls his fingers out of him and Stiles whines, empty and aching.

“Look at yourself,” Derek demands, shakes Stiles until he raises his gaze to the mirror, sees yellow eyes and fangs, the soft beginning of fur on the sides of his face - a face now foreign to him - and looks up to Derek in reflection as he, in one long, brutally slow movement, buries his cock deep in Stiles with a low sound of satisfaction.

Stiles can’t breathe, can’t make a sound until Derek is moving and the overwhelming waves of sensation, that cold shot of harmonious electricity on each thrust, have him crying out despite himself. He groans and finds his own body pivoting back into the rhythm, like it knows what to do without him even thinking about it, taken over by some primal knowledge that takes over and knows exactly how to make this feel better and better. Derek still has Stiles’ arm painfully held behind his back, and it takes a lot of work on Stiles part to support himself on the sink with his one free arm with Derek’s relentless pace. Looking down Stiles sees his fingers now weaponized with claws. He shuts his eyes tight.

“Eyes open,” Derek commands, in a breath between thrusts. Stiles looks up at Derek in reflection, eyes pleading, because it’s too much. “Not at me, at you.” And Stiles looks back to himself, watches exactly what he looks like when he’s being fucked senseless by Derek, what he looks like as this new monster, half there, and so wanton and needy from the sight he feels as horrible and vulnerable an open wound. He moans as quietly as he can and nods, a quick affirmative jerk of his head he hopes is enough because he’s not ready to hear his own voice like this.

“You see how powerful you are? How good this can be?”

Of course the point is a little moot with Derek’s cock in his ass, because Stiles is pretty sure his sense of “good” is a little clouded by the stupefying _good_ of what Derek is doing to him, but he’s right; he can feel every muscle in his body alive and vicious, feel the dark new depths of power there – a dark, frightening, seductive thing that he is learning to inhabit more and more. Derek wraps his free arm around Stiles and surrounds Stiles’ cock with the grip of his hand again, works over him until Stiles is fighting hard to not scream.

Derek whispers into his hair. “Never wanted to breed anyone like I’ve wanted you. Never felt so good to—,” he trails off hips stuttering.

Stiles heart twists into knots. He can’t hear this kind of talk and come out of this not hoping he’s something special when he’s not. It’s not fair. Stiles growls over his shoulder.  

_Spare me the fake romance and fuck me_ , he thinks hard, and hopes Derek can sense it.

Derek doesn’t slow. He lets go of Stiles arm, teases, “Give me something that doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a pup and I’ll give you what you want,” as he wraps his arm around Stiles’ chest and arms, bringing their bodies flush, smirk in his eye as he mouths Stiles neck, teeth barely touching over the sensitive skin there. And Stiles shows off his fangs in response when he meets his eye.

“Bite me.” Stiles manages, ragged. Derek smiles just barely, a wicked little curve of his lips, as he pulls the neckline of Stiles’ jersey down just enough and places his mouth to the suspension of muscle there, biting down slow and hard.

Stiles lets the feeling flow through him, the pain and the pleasure of being marked by Derek, and the memory of the first time now a tantalizing recall – a thrill instead of terror. How that first bite in the same spot has led to this moment. That thought along with the hot flare of pain, just on the edge of too much, sends a jolt of heat right through him. “Oh my god,” Stiles breathes through it, “Fuck,” and that’s all growl, a reverberating expletive. Derek lands a hard thrust into him, wet mouth still sucking at the new wound, and then another thrust, and Stiles laughs seeing stars, feels the call rise up in him, swell up from his core, ready to rush out of him like a scream.

Derek feels it too. “Come on, Stiles, let me hear it.”

The howl echoes off the tiles walls and probably through all of Beacon Hills High School. Stiles gasps, returning to himself, mouth open and staring at his reflection as the sound dissipates. _That was from me,_ he realizes, shocked. _That was from me._

Derek makes an awed sound behind him that quickly dissolves into the telling increasingly insistent sounds of his climax, quieter and gentler than his thrusts. The growing familiarity of this intimate view of Derek hits deep in Stiles chest like a punch. Derek’s hips snap up again and again and Stiles clenches around him as Derek murmurs Stiles’ name through the crescendo of it with so much amazement, that on that last little whine of need for just a moment Stiles forgets to keep himself closed off and safe and is completely and utterly gutted with love. He chokes on it, hates how much he wants, how much it goes beyond here and now. How he doesn’t know how far back he started caring this deeply for Derek, but that he knows deep down he wants Derek this open to him always.

Stiles takes the shame of it and tucks it away like an injury. He focuses instead on soaking up the way Derek looks behind him now, eyes flashing red over his shoulder in between waves of pleasure, feels the slick feeling of Derek’s come, his breath on his neck over the bite. Stiles whispers “ _Yes_ ,” to all of it.

Derek stills momentarily, arms holding around Stiles like a safety belt as he catches his breath. He tenses his hold and makes a small sound of exertion into Stiles’ shoulder as he floods Stiles a second time. Stiles doesn’t know if he should ask to follow along or if he should literally take matters into his own hands. He’s aching with it by the third time Derek tenses and breathes through it against his shoulder blade, sated but not finished. Stiles has got blood all over his jersey from that bite and it’s probably not going to come out, he thinks distantly. And Derek’s come is dripping down his leg. His sock is wet with it. Stiles feels any physical satisfaction from this encounter getting farther and farther away, replaced by frustration and discomfort.

“Uh, I didn’t…” he says awkwardly, and then Derek sleepily fumbles back around to him. Stiles bites back a cry as Derek’s fingers surround him again, because it feels even better now to be touched there, whole body telling him _yes, please, do it, do it._

“Sorry, got carried away,” Derek says breathless, and shivers as he convulses, another load of fresh come flooding Stiles. “You surprised me.”

Stiles laughs thinly with relief as Derek’s hand keeps working him closer and closer, his body seizing down on it and Derek inside him.

Derek makes a sound like he’s pained by it, grunts, “Gonna fucking milk me dry?”

Stiles nods drunkenly, “You deserve it, you asshole.” And Derek laughs with him, holding him close as he whips his wrist quicker, gets Stiles to shut up by forcing him to the point of no return.

“That’s it,” Derek coos, and Stiles breaks with a bitten off, winded moan, exploding over Derek’s grip and his shorts, blinded and unable to breathe. It hits so hard and so fast. Derek’s humming, those pleased vibrations running over Stiles’ back. Stiles hears himself coming down far away, and he breathes out a sound of wonder as he comes back to himself, opens his eyes to see himself and Derek still coupled close in reflection, bodies still tied to one another desperately.

Holy fuck, it’s so good. It’s better every time.

Derek kisses at the bite as Stiles’ gasps out the last of his own aftershocks, and Derek makes soft sounds of praise against his skin, the bite still tender and hot. It’s such a sweet feeling Stiles doesn’t even know how to respond, but he really wishes he was in a position where he could place their faces closer to one another’s. He wishes he could kiss his blood out of Derek’s mouth. Would Derek kiss him back?

There’s a moment where Stiles is too happy to pursue that thought to it’s bitter edges, too spent to move to attempt anything either, but then Derek sighs and rolls his hips deep once more, done but snugly buried in him, and the sensation of his prostate hit again, body now sore and hypersensitive has him jarringly awake to the world.  It still feels amazing, but anxiety is creeping in. Stiles mumbles, “Someone could come in. We should get going.”

Derek nods and pulls out gently. The sting of it has Stiles biting his lip. Thankfully the fangs have retracted. Other than looking like he just was fucked completely senseless, he looks all-in-all human.

Stiles pulls up his shorts and gasps as he has to clench his ass to keep Derek’s come inside him and make the least mess possible, but that won’t last long.

“Hey, I’m gonna use the bathroom if you don’t mind.”

Derek pauses washing his hands, glances over warily.

Stiles throws his arms up, a move that almost ruins everything as he feels another trickle of come run down his leg. Damn it. “Dude, I know you feel the need to inseminate me, or whatever, but I don’t actually have the equipment for that, so I’m going to make sure I don’t drip you all over campus now. If you don’t mind,” he repeats the last with a fair amount of sarcasm, because, really.

Stiles impatiently shimmies towards a stall waiting for any response from Derek but also making it clear he’s only waiting so long for one. Derek nods mostly to himself and Stiles lets out a breath of disbelief. Alphas.

He closes the stall and pulls down his shorts and it’s honestly a disaster. There’s no salvaging this. His own come and Derek’s is all over the fabric, back and front. “Oh my gosh… Derek?” he calls.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“What?”

“Can you get me my change of clothes from the locker room?”

There’s a long pause and then the faucet is turned off.

“Where? What’s the number?”

Yes. “It’s at the end of the hall on the left. Locker 808.”

“You have a key?”

“Combination. 5-11-42.” Stiles adds, “Uh, and my helmet’s outside.”

There’s footsteps and the sound of the door opening and closing and then just the silence of Stiles alone in the bathroom.

Stiles makes quick work of cleaning himself up, and so it’s pretty soon that he’s just there on his own, waiting for Derek to come back with his clothes. Being half nude on the toilet alone with his thoughts isn’t really a great thing right now; the rush in his blood is dying down, and all those hormones that had him drunkenly risking everything over a sink moments before are fading away to just leave the barebones of the play by play going in his head. And of all of it, the one thing that’s sticking into him like a thorn, like an embarrassing secret, is that for a moment - no matter how he’s tried to tell himself this is a situation that will end and soon, a fantasy filled in the most horrifying but superficial way - he _wanted_ , he _longed_ for more than this.

Every time is likely the last time he gets to be close to Derek like this. He hates how much that hurts.

_Never wanted… anyone like I’ve wanted you._

Stiles actually slaps himself right across the face. No. He chides himself, as he feels his face sting – _you are not reading into this. You are not hoping. You are not allowed to, Stiles._ He breathes, tries to not think.

The door opens and Stiles listens, waits for any audible sign that the person who entered is Derek and not a stranger, and instead gets his gym bag and backpack passed under the stall one by one. “Wow, above and beyond. Thanks,” Stiles says honestly. It was pretty thoughtful of Derek to grab his books.

He pulls out his boxers and jeans, winces as he pulls them on - getting plowed on the regular is not something his body quite used to yet. He pulls off the bloody jersey, and turns both his shorts and jersey inside out and folds the stains inwards it so the blood and come is tucked away from getting on anything else and stuffs all of it in in his duffle bag. He can wash them tonight and hope for the best.

He thinks about home, his Jeep here in the parking lot, and Dad getting off from work early on Mondays and realizes he _has_ to go home. He can’t keep pretending to stay at Scott’s, or sneaking out in the middle of the night. Not without it blowing up in his face soon and he’s not ready for putting his Dad through the inevitable horror of finding out his son is a monster now also on the horizon. Not yet.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to go home.”

There’s a pause. ‘I know.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Stiles straightens his t-shirt, slings his bags over his shoulder, and opens the stall door. Derek is leaning back against the sink next to the one they just fucked on, arms crossed, looking down. Stiles’ helmet is on the ground, set carefully to the side. Stiles swallows.

“I’ll be okay.”

Stiles feels his stomach drop. “You said you only had to do this a couple more times before the heat was over. We’re slightly past that quota now, don’t you think?” Stiles feels horrible as soon as he says it. “I don’t mean I’m not having a great time with all the—“ he motions because he can’t seem to get himself to call it ‘sex’ when it’s doing things to him he never thought sex would, “but I just want to know how long before things go back to—“

“The way they were?” Derek supplies.

Stiles feels a sort of sick grief in his stomach. He shrugs.

Derek lifts himself away from the sink and makes to leave. “I don’t know.”

Stiles licks his bottom lip with a flare of frustration. “You don’t know?”

“No,” Derek turns back towards him and exasperatedly replies. “It’s different for every Alpha.”

Stiles has had it. “That sounds like bullshit.”

Derek is on him in a moment, close and vicious and a breath away from touching. “What do you want, Stiles, huh? I’m not enjoying this. It’s agony.”

“Oh, agony! _Agony?_ Have you happened to notice what part of my anatomy you’re using for this?” Stiles ignores the hurt that wants to point out to Derek exactly where this is actually stabbing Stiles, right under his ribs. He refuses to back down and give in to the emotional surrender of that, even if the insinuation of Derek’s loathing isn’t getting any easier to hear. “I need to know because I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this.”

Derek’s expression changes to confusion and Stiles wonders if he’s giving away too much. It’s a hell of a lot easier to let Derek think Stiles doesn’t care anymore, that he’s too pissed at him to have feelings for him, than to let him know it hurts.

“Isaac could smell you on me,” Stiles spits out bitterly. “He knows. They’ll _all_ know. All the other Betas. Do you have any idea how _humiliating_ that is?” The pain in his chest is stifling now and he feels the treacherous prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, because it’s true. It’s true. “I’ll have to be the bitch in the pack you fucked. Forever. I’ll be the mistake.” Stiles hates himself. He hates himself so much for saying it because it’s concrete now. All the dark things he’s been feeling, all the doubts he’s been stomping down. “No. I’ll be _your_ mistake.”

Derek has stepped back. Stiles isn’t sure when he started raising his voice but the walls echo with the last words, even though he knows he says it softer than the rest. Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles is grateful because he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want his explanations, or his sell on the bite, or even his pity over their situation. He wants this to all just go away. Stiles walks past him and grabs his helmet before he exits the bathroom and heads to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the bookmarks, comments, and kudos, folks! :D
> 
> Sorry for the horribly long wait. More to come very soon! xoxo
> 
> -K


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixed feelings, better grades, closer friendships, first dates, full moons, and more mixed feelings! \o/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how you all are doing, I hope alright, but I know the last few months have been especially stressful and a lot of you are with family right now for the holiday and perhaps facing even more anxiety and frustration. I know I'm sort of just cranking out some niche escapism here, but if it helps, I hope it does. And I wanted to tell you I appreciate you all. Your comments and kudos brighten my mornings. I hope this find you all well and safe.
> 
> Peace and love to you.
> 
> -K

It’s not as comforting to be in his own bed as he’d hoped it would be. Stiles turns over again and places his hand exhausted to the point on his chest where it still feels like an angry ember. He keeps hearing the words he said, keeps turning them over and feeling like the worst shit in the world. Was it worth it to let that out? Was it necessary even? Has he just made it all worse? Again? He tells himself he’s allowed to be mad, he’s allowed to lash out. He didn’t ask for any of this. And he’s allowed to express that.

Except that he isn’t upset he’s been turned. Surprisingly, he’s not. Deep down he’s kind of grateful that the situation wasn’t a worse one, where he was dying and had to choose whether to live or die, or put in a position where someone else gave him the bite and he had someone he truly despised as an Alpha. He shudders remembering Peter’s mouth a breath away from his wrist, his twisted propaganda about how much of a gift it all was.

Derek was who he would have chosen to get the bite from, if anyone. And, yes, the sequence of events that led to it will fuck him up for a long, long time. He’s never going to be the same. But Derek’s probably fucked up by it too.

It’s just not fair. Any chance of anything he’d ever dreamed of – “dreamed” being the considerable part of that thought - with Derek was obliterated. Maybe Stiles had even entertained once or twice the thought that once he was eighteen and if miraculously Derek warmed up to him, they’d have a chance at something. And now it was ruined. How could Derek ever have feelings for someone he just looked at with remorse? Any future they had was sullied and wrecked by that first night, and here Stiles was just rubbing the stain in.

Stiles winces. God, did he _have_ to say all those things to Derek?

There’s a buzz from the floor and Stiles reaches down for his phone. Scott’s text reads:

_You forgot to text me._

Stiles smiles slightly. _When are you going to realize what a dumbass I am and give up on me?_

A moment later. _You’re the smartest dumbass I know._

Before Stiles can reply Scott sends, _You home?_

_Yeah._

Scott buzzes back. _You wanna talk?_

Stiles looks at the clock. It’s past eleven. Too late to phone and not wake Dad.

_I can text._

There’s no reply for a minute so Stiles texts without thinking it through too much, because he needs to talk about it and if he doesn’t tell Scott, he’s never going to tell anyone. And he needs to tell someone.

_I had a fight with derek_

Scott texts back an emphatic _????_

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say or where to start and so he just goes for the core of it.

_I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you’ve known I’ve had a crush on him for a while_

Scott texts, _yeah._

And that hurts too. It’s all just so pathetic and hopeless isn’t it?

_Was it that obvious?_

Scott messages back, _Lol I had maybe a slight advantage when it comes to sensing that stuff_

Stiles wipes the tears off his face with his hand and laughs a little at that.

Scott adds, _so no, but yeah._

A moment later Scott texts, _So that was what the fight was about? :/_

 _No,_ Stiles replies. _I don’t know. Maybe. I was mad. I’m just really overwhelmed._

_Just all of you knowing everything and my life turning upside down._

_I don’t know what to do._

The phone buzzes twice.

_I’m here for you, dude. It’s gonna be okay._

_We’ll figure it out._

Stiles texts back. _Thanks._

And he means it.

 _Do you need me to sneak over there?_ Scott asks.

Stiles smiles a little. _No, it’s okay_

Scott insists, _Just say the word and I’m there._

Stiles texts back, _Don’t I know it._

_I’ll see you tomorrow._

He turns over and finally drifts off.

 

The next few days go by relatively smoothly despite the heaviness in his stomach whenever he thinks about Derek. The fever has died down and Stiles is feeling relatively normal, or a better version of the old normal, as the case may be, when it comes to how he’s improved his game in pretty much every aspect of his physical and social self.

The heat must have passed enough for Derek to control himself because he leaves Stiles alone for the next few days, which is a relief, even if it gives Stiles more time to obsess and question the situation as it is more than he would like to. He catches himself typing out apology texts to Derek and then deleting them. He makes it a point to actively fill his mind with whatever else he can instead. He involves himself with people more. He flirts with Danny and Lydia who are suddenly a lot more into him, perhaps because he’s doing better in lacrosse. Stiles and Scott are as close ever, maybe even more so now they’re evenly matched in senses. They’re able to whisper now instead of passing notes which had gotten them caught more than a few times in the past when laughter got the better of one of them. And though he’d kept it in check, being the weaker of the two of them hadn’t felt very good last year. There had been times where reasoning through his jealousy over Scott’s newly acquired advantages was a common if not daily occurrence.  And while Stiles is really grateful for Scott’s protectiveness, he feels better knowing that if it came down to it, Stiles can take care of himself now too.

Stiles notices too that he’s able to focus much more on his work than he could before, on or off his meds, and for once he’s on top of his assignments by the quickly approaching weekend. It’s a good feeling.

It’s also a good feeling to be getting ready for a date like a normal human being. Or a normal closeted werewolf, but close enough. He makes sure to get his favorite newer hoody washed and sprays himself down with that bottle of cologne he only saves for occasions where he’s supposed to wear a suit. He flexes in the mirror and tries to stop shaking because he’s nervous, he realizes. He is very, very nervous.

The doorbell rings, and no amount of supernatural ability has saved Stiles from his inherent tendency to flail in surprise when he’s already on edge. He catches the empty mug he knocked over mid-air before it shatters.

“Stiles, Danny’s here!” His dad calls up the stairs and Stiles grabs his keys.

“Coming, coming, hey,” Stiles greets as he comes down.

Danny’s wearing a purplish gray shirt that fits him beautifully and he smiles up at him shyly as Stiles descends. Stiles stomach flip-flops all over the place. “Ready?” Danny asks.

“Yeah, totally.” Stiles says as he heads out the door with him.

“Home by 11,” his dad says and pats Stiles on the back.

 

They go out for dinner first. A California Pizza Kitchen Stiles hasn’t been to since he was a kid. It’s familiar enough that Stiles feels more at ease than he’d expected. But that might also have to definitely do with the fact that despite being a ridiculously good looking guy and the kind of person Jackson considers a friend, Danny it turns out is actually incredibly cool. They have way more in common when it comes to interests than Stiles would have imagined given their, until recently, very differing social statuses. A similar love of scary movies, both of them like first person shooter games, and even though Danny is a computer geek, he is a PC guy like Stiles. “I can’t game on a Mac either,” Danny says and blushes after realizing he’s been rambling about Call of Duty for the last five minutes. Stiles feels a wave of warmth because, cool, they are both equally nerdy. Danny, secretly so, the ex-hacker, but it’s a relief all the same.

They head back to Danny’s place which is very similar to Scott’s house in décor. Melissa and Danny’s mom have similar taste.

“Mom is working late, it’s just us,” Danny says it casually as he walks to the kitchen, but it implies enough to have Stiles’ heart jump a little. “Do you drink?”

“Uhhhhmm,” Stiles stutters. He doesn’t know actually. Does he? He has before. Oh, gosh, he’s so awkward he could scream. “Sure, sure.”

“Beer?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rushes. “Yeah, great.”

Danny comes back with two cold bottles and passes one to Stiles, who attempts to raise it to Danny’s in a cheer and when he looks up to Danny who’s not returning the gesture, see’s Danny is barely holding back a laugh. Stiles feels the humiliation sink in his gut like a stone.

“Oh my god, was that really bad?” Stiles asks, grimacing.

“What are we, like, bros now?” Danny giggles and clicks their bottles together finally in kind mocking.

Stiles admits, “I’m sorry.” He takes a long and hopefully rectifying swig. “If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m incredibly uncool.”

Danny gestures for him to sit down on the couch while he turns on the TV and surround sound. “Oh, you’re not too bad,” he says over his shoulder.

Stiles relaxes into the couch, sips his beer and smiles, very much looking forward to the edge being taken off by this beer and the distraction of a movie.

“What are we watching?”

“I got the new Fright Night. Sound good?”

“Definitely.”

Half way into the movie the beer is long gone and Stiles is feeling safe and cozy. The alcohol buzz has swept over Stiles and made the night feel smoother, one long note of undulating comfort. Danny brought out some blankets as the movie went on and gradually Stiles and Danny leaned in to one another under the warmth. Stiles focuses on those points of contact - their shoulders, their knees – the smell of Danny, thrilling and new.

“This movie isn’t very scary,” Stiles laughs. “But I like it. It’s good.”

“Yeah,” Danny agrees and snuggles closer.

Stiles feels Danny’s eyes on him more than once as they watch and secretly revels under the attention, but doesn’t have the courage to look back just yet. He wonders, embarrassed, if Danny can feel his heart beating like a drum all through him. He must.

Halfway through Danny gets them two more beers and gets right back under the blankets with him. It’s easier to put away, and Stiles is quickly even warmer and lighter than before. Everything feels so good. Danny smells amazing. This is the best he’s felt in so long.

The movie’s ending is campy and fantastic, and as the credits roll among animations of splashing red, Stiles sighs and shifts towards Danny as he turns off the TV. Stiles stretches and comments maybe a little too loudly, “That was good!”

Danny catches Stiles’ face in his hands.

“Oh.”

Danny gives him a smitten little smile, face close and lovely, and asks, “You too drunk?”

Stiles shakes his head and the room spins a little. He’s buzzed but he’s conscious of himself. “No. It’s okay.”

Consent granted, Danny leans in and places his lips to Stiles’ and Stiles whimpers a little on his exhale, his hands finding his way to Danny’s shirt and holding on.

Danny is good at this. Correction: he’s _very_ good at this, Stiles thinks, as Danny moves over him and guides him to lie down, burying his face into Stiles neck to kiss there and suck at the delicate skin by his ears as they sink into the sofa. Danny’s hand runs down Stiles’ side, pushes under his shirt while his mouth sucks deep, right under his jaw, and it’s all so good Stiles is muffling a cry into the cushion next to him, a barely audible cuss of “Fuck…”

Danny laughs against his skin and Stiles can’t remember the last time he’s felt so healthy.

“Danny,” Stiles gasps for breath, and Danny comes back up from the warm space of his neck, places his hand to Stiles jaw and kisses him hard this time, rough and demanding, and Stiles can’t help it, his hips jerk up to meet Danny’s weight. It’s like an electric jolt when his erection rubs against Danny’s through their jeans.

Danny makes a sound into his neck as he kisses at it again and Stiles might hyperventilate because Danny is sucking there again and it’s making him see stars but fear grips Stiles because of the danger of Danny making a visible mark that will heal supernaturally fast, and what if Danny sees? He bites his lip.

“I don’t want to ruin the mood, but my dad will flip if I have a hickey,” Stiles pants.

Danny laughs and kisses chastely at the skin of his neck, comes back up to hover over Stiles on his elbows. “I’ll be less territorial, sorry.” Stiles laughs up at him, giddy.

In the happy lull he happens to catch the clock out of the corner of his eye. Fifteen till 11.

“Crap! I have to get home,” Stiles blurts out, tensing. Damn it.

“Wish you could stay,” Danny says as Stiles sits up, and nuzzles Stiles shoulder with his nose.

Stiles rises and leans in to kiss Danny this time. His lips feel so good. And he’s so pretty. How can this be real?

“Me too,” Stiles says and pulls his shoes back on.

 

“You free next Friday?” Danny asks as he pulls up to Stiles’ place.

“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles replies, knows he’s grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.

Danny leans over and kisses him and it’s short, but sweet and playful. “Good. Cause that band, Jet Fuel, is back in town and they’re playing a show Friday at the Pit.”

“Oh, wow!” Stiles has not heard of this band ever but that’s not really important - if it’s something Danny wants to do, he’s there. “Yeah, I’d like that,” Stiles says, and forces himself to step out of the car. “I had a great night. See you on Monday.”

Danny waves. “Yeah! Goodnight.”

Stiles watches Danny drive off, full of restless excitement. He slumps backwards with how amazingly that went. Danny _likes_ him. And he likes Danny. Maybe he gets the teenage dream. Wouldn’t that be something?

The night is quiet and cool. Stiles gives himself a moment to sink it in, breathes deep, and turns to walk up the driveway, an uncharacteristic level of contentment picking his feet up.

The pleasantness is shorter lived than even Stiles could’ve expected; he hears a familiar roar of engine from up the road behind him, closer and louder by the second.

Oh, God, not now.

He turns and squints into the oncoming lights, backs up the driveway a step, and puts his hands in his pockets.

Derek rolls down the window. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

So seeing Derek still has Stiles heart doing very unfair things. Good to know. And having his heart twisted around again about Derek was really the last thing Stiles needed tonight, but Stiles frowns and pats his pockets at Derek’s words. He doesn’t have his cell phone. He must have left it behind at home in the whirlwind of pre-date jitters.

“Sorry, I didn’t have it.” Stiles gestures a half shrug of remorse. “Is this going to be a common thing? Like you just thinking it’s fine to creep on my life?” Stiles wants to bring up the argument from before but maybe that’s a thing that doesn’t need to happen now.

“I’m not creeping,” Derek replies, sounding the slightest bit offended, puts the car in park and turns the engine off. He gets out and comes around the car to faces Stiles. There’s nothing intimidating about the move really - it’s casual, like someone that just wants to talk to someone a little less awkwardly than through the window of their car, but Stiles steps back slightly anyway, on guard, before he catches himself.

Actually maybe this does need to happen right now.

“You know, you haven’t spoken to me for days?” Stiles says gesturing a rather frustrated shrug towards Derek. It sounded less accusatory in his head, but he’s not going to pretend he didn’t expect some sort of a Beta pup check in or something at some point. He’d felt kind of abandoned to be honest, considering how Derek checks on the rest of the pack all the time, and Stiles knows it. That’s not a nice feeling to be recognizing now.

Derek folds his arms in a tired, sad way, like he expected a fight but brought no ammunition for it. He breaks eye contact with Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t know how to feel, or what he’s feeling. What’s there isn’t a good feeling though.

And then Derek raises his eyebrows just barely and scents the air between them.

“Where were you tonight?”

“Is that any of your business?”

“Who were you with?” Derek says it softly, curious, and surprisingly not hostile. Stiles would have been prepared to deal with angry jealousy. Derek’s not in heat, and having interest when it comes to Stiles outside of that horror show isn’t a familiar thing. Because even now looking back he’s pretty sure the weird preoccupation Derek had with Stiles in the weeks leading up was not normal. He’s not sure what to do with this strangely delicate tone.

“I went on a date.” Stiles says. It’s so much more callous sounding to say when Derek is being so unusually calm about it. “He’s a guy from school. Is that not okay?”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He’s not making eye contact at all, and it’s honestly enough to drive Stiles crazy, because he’d so rather fight than have this.

“Last week,” Derek starts, and then sighs.

Stiles’ heart is pounding. He’s not sure he’s ready for what’s coming.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says quietly. “I know this wasn’t what either of us really wanted.”

Stiles starts to protest that, because they’ve talked about this already.

“No, just let me,” Derek interrupts. “Please, just let me talk.”

Stiles breathes shallow and waits, eyes flitting to Derek’s face.

“I’m never going to be able to repay you for what I’ve taken,” Derek says, and Stiles can tell just by the measured beat of the words, Derek has been preparing to say this for a while. “I completely understand if you hate me and you can’t forgive me. Believe me, I wish it hadn’t happened. I tried to stop it.” Stiles falters in the pause there. Tried? Before Stiles can ask, Derek takes another deep breath and finally meets Stiles eyes. It feels like a matchstick struck whenever he does that. It’s really not right how that can side swipe Stiles every time he has a handle on how he feels about whatever Derek and he are at this point to one another. “I can only teach you now. I don’t want you to become an Omega, Stiles,” he says softly, so softly, and then hesitantly, to himself almost, like he didn’t plan to confess it, he says, “I can barely deal with this, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

Stiles can’t piece through the flurry of contradicting feelings flitting through him right now with all of this, but he nods and says, “Okay.”

“The full moon is next week. I need you to have an alibi so you can spend the night at my place and I can keep you safe.”

The world tips a bit at the mention of that quickly approaching first time. Stiles has been actively trying not to think about the full moon, but he can’t outrun this forever. Stiles puts his hand to his hairline and breathes out fast. “Okay, I’ll figure it out.”

“And Stiles?” Derek adds as Stiles turns to head up the driveway.

“Yeah?”

“He’s good to you?”

Stiles shrugs. “So far.”

Derek considers it and nods. “Good.”

There’s a smell on the air Stiles just catches from Derek as he turns and gets back in his car, and it’s faint but it’s there. It’s bitter. Stiles feels it pass through him like sympathetically like nausea, that familiar tang of emotion; Derek is sad.

Stiles swallows the questions down. Because so what if Derek is sad? Isn’t that a sort of default for him? Sad and annoyed?

But he’s not annoyed with Stiles. Nothing in Derek’s tone held any resentment or frustration that wasn’t aimed at himself.

Derek drives off and the night is quiet again.

 

“You are fifteen minutes late, mister.” Stiles’ Dad is sipping hot chocolate waiting for him which is almost cute, Stiles thinks.

“I’m sorry. I really tried to get back in time.”

“Letting you off just this once. But only because your grades are up.” He takes a loud sip, sets down the mug. “How did it go?”

“I’ve got another date with him next week, so,” Stiles says and inspects his sleeve absently, grinning, “well, I guess.”

“That is what I’m talking about.” His dad raises his hand up in a solemn high five and Stiles crosses the room to receive it. It turns into a pat on the back right after. He motions to his hot chocolate. “Want some?”

“What? Yeah!”

“It’s in the kitchen. Make it yourself.”

“Oh, my god.” Stiles laughs and goes upstairs.

 

He calls Scott. He can’t wait to tell him about the incredibly unbelievable level of success the date had achieved.

“Totally epic.” Stiles rolls over in bed, peeks over to make sure the door is closed, says softer, “he was all over me, Scott. It was unbelievable.”

“Dude, that’s awesome!” Stiles can hear the bashful smile in Scott’s voice and it honestly feels like sunshine streaming through the phone, that goodhearted freak. Stiles smiles too and stares at the ceiling.

“We have a second date next Friday.” Stiles traces his finger on the wall.

“Friday?” Scott asks.

“Yeah. Something wrong with Friday?” Stiles responds.

Scott takes knowing something Stiles doesn’t with such horrible grace, it’s its own special kind of insult. “Friday is the full moon!”

Stiles stomach drops. “No!” He hisses into the receiver. “No, you’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“Crap.” It was all going to smoothly, Stiles thinks mournfully. “I knew this was all too good to be true.”

“Just reschedule.”

“I can’t, it’s a band he likes.” Stiles sighs. “Oh, man, why?”

“The price we pay, I guess.”

“Shut up,” Stiles whines and Scott laughs.

“I’m sure it will be fine. Say you’re sick or something. He’ll understand.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess. Hey, can you be my alibi? Derek is gonna keep an eye on me that night.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

They end the call and Stiles feels the heaviness of it all suddenly crash down. Okay, so normal life is off the table. Got it. He pulls off his shirt and bites his lip. The sadness is quickly becoming rage and he has no outlet for it right now. He slips out of his jeans, pulls on a tshirt and climbs into bed.

He thinks about Danny for a while, and though his hand makes his way to his boxers, he nods off before he can do much more.

 

The coming full moon feels like a headache building for days. Light hurts even with his eyes closed. The fluorescents in the classrooms are especially cruel, to the point that Stiles has to shield his eyes in certain classes. Isaac comes up to him in the hall and pats his shoulder. “Feelin it, huh?” And Stiles almost tries to bite at him right there in front of everyone.

 

By Thursday evening he’s ripped up two shirts trying to change, yelled at Scott twice when he tried to ease the pain in Econ, and come on to Lydia so hard as she was walking to the bathroom in between periods she looked honestly concerned. “Are you sick or something?” She asked. “Maybe you should go to the nurse.”

“I’m fine.” Stiles ran a ringlet of her hair around his finger. Leaned in, waited, and Lydia nodded and looked away, eyes wide.

“Okayyy, see you later.” She said and made as casual a run for it as possible.

Scott took her place instantly. “Dude, you have _got_ to chill out,” he whispered. “You should go to Derek now. I’ll tell your Dad you and I have a project or something. I’ll cover you. You should go.”

Stiles felt himself sizing Scott up. Scott was stronger than him probably, had more practice. But maybe not. Maybe it was worth a try.

“Stiles,” Scott hissed. “You’re eyes! Come on!”

Stiles looked over to the reflection from the glass on the fire extinguisher, saw the glint of gold. Cold fear ran down his spine. He wiped his face with his hands took a few steadying breaths. The warmth of Scott’s hands on his shoulders was grounding.

“You have to go.” Scott insisted.

Stiles shook his head. “No, no, I’m okay.” He quietly added, “Thanks,” and made his way to Math.

 

Stiles sits on his bed, holds his phone in his hand with Derek’s number dialed and his finger over “send,” but he can’t get himself to do it.  Still 24 hours to go and he’s riding the knife edge of turning now, the moon out the window a breath away from full and calling him even so. He feels it in his bones, in his blood, a swift powerful rush of adrenaline and something unnamable. He’s shaking.

He feels crazy.

Maybe he should go running, that it might wear him out. But the thought travels its own course and eventually reaches the thought of strangling the neighbor’s barking dog down the street.

Stiles digs his fingers into his thighs through denim, thinks about anything else, thinks about Danny pinning him down, thinks about pinning Danny down, burying his teeth deep into his neck, the sweet flood of jugular blood rushing down Stiles throat, Danny’s life, warm and coppery, barely enough to quench how much he want to break, to bleed, to crush.

Stiles grimaces and puts his head in his hands, presses his eyes until they ache. It’s so strange. Even at his angriest, his thoughts of violence were never this clear or this horrifyingly pleasurable. He gets up in a rush and closes the door and locks it, runs over to the window and pulls the blinds and drapes closed, feeling the light of the moon on him like a cop’s spotlight and then the blissful relief of it being muffled.

It’s still there though. He can feel it like an oncoming train. He sits back down. What now? Sleep seems impossible and he can’t concentrate enough to study.

Scott texts him, _Please tell me you canceled that date._

Stiles lies down face first on the bed and groans, phone dropping with a soft thud to the carpet.

He reaches down after a minute and picks it up, texts back, _not yet_

_Im going to text derek_

_Don’t you dare._

No reply.

 _Promise me._ Stiles insists.

Ten minutes later there’s still no response and Stiles might kill his friend, so help him.

His phone starts buzzing and it’s Derek, fantastic.

“I’m fine!” Stiles insists.

“Oookay?” Derek says softly and sounding surprisingly caught off guard. “Good to know. I just wanted to check if everything is set for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Stiles stumbles over the coincidence. “Scott didn’t call you?”

“No, why?”

“Nothing,” Stiles breathes out relaxing against the mattress with unexpected relief. “Yeah Scott’s covering for me. It’s fine.”

There’s a long pause. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah, I’m doing good.”

“No violent urges or weird... uncontrollable urges in general?” Derek presses.

“No.” And, wow, it feels really bad to lie. Like nails on a chalkboard. Stiles wonders briefly if that’s because Derek’s his Alpha, or because it’s Derek and Stiles has apparently absolutely no handle on his feelings anymore, dammit. “No, I’m great.”

“Moon rise is at 7:20 tomorrow, I’m picking you up at the latest by 5. Might be better if I picked you up at school.” Derek pauses for a moment, breathing quietly into the silence. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers but feels far away, somewhere deep within the earpiece of his phone. His whole self feels wrapped around the sound of Derek breathing on the line. He slides his hand down under himself, covers the ache in his groin with it. The sweat from his palm seeps through, and he’s rubbing just enough to get the ache to turn to that fine hum of simmering want.

“You okay?” Derek asks, with that treble-y sweet voice all concerned and Stiles’ breath hitches.

The line is tellingly silent. He’s caught.

“Stiles, are you…” Derek starts. “Are you alone?”

“Y-Yeah,” Stiles breathes, and rubs his face into the covers, tries to will himself back under control. He pulls his hand away. “I have to go.”

There’s a long moment of silence and then Derek hangs up.

 

As soon as Derek is off the line, Stiles straightens and opens his pants, forces his hand in to grip at himself. His boxers are soaked with sweat and precome, his cock slick and ready and it takes moments before he’s flooding his hand with come, whimpering breathless and strangled.

And then, like an itch unscratched, the need picks up again, pumping into his fist, tacky and hot, the thought of Derek coming undone inside Stiles mind playing on repeat. He covers his shout into his pillow as he peaks again, and then gasps to the side, feathery tendrils of the high passing into sleepy calm.

Sleep takes him under like a wave overhead.

 

 

The next morning Stiles wakes to the sound of his alarm and the uncomfortable pull of dried come on his skin. The next awareness is that same feeling from yesterday - like he’s a charged strobe ready to flash off and explode if he doesn’t keep himself under very tight control. It’s a scary thing to wake to, and the thought of turning fully tonight, so close, has him putting his hands to his face and breathing like he’s hurting. He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s got all day, he tells himself. Hours away. Breathe.

Danny texted him last night after he fell asleep. _Can’t wait to see you._

The warmth of the words catches Stiles off guard. He bites his upper lip happily but the swift realization that somehow he’s going to have to break it to Danny that he can’t meet him has all that pleasantness snuffed out in a moment. He hates this so much.

He jumps into the shower and keeps it down at a cool temperature. He lathers himself up, rinses off, keeps his mind on each task at hand, which keeps that simmering feeling in check for the most part. It feels safer. He counts under his breath to ten, and then again, as he dries off. He pulls on his clothes.

He keeps thinking about Danny though. How good it felt to kiss him, how much he can’t wait to do that again. How the idea of going to a rock show and finding a dark corner with him sounds like the best thing in the world. He can see himself dropping to his knees in his mind, sees himself showing Danny just how much he wants to make him feel good, how much he wants him no matter where.

Stiles shakes the thought out of his head and starts counting again, shifts his backpack to cover himself, half hard, on his way out the door. He hears his Dad call a goodbye. Stiles doesn’t manage a reply.

He makes it to school without running anyone off the road, though “tempting” isn’t strong enough a word. After being cut off at a stop light, he has to bite his hand to stop himself from slamming the car in front of him into the traffic of the intersection.

Everything is too loud, too bright, too strong smelling when he steps out of the Jeep, and he groans low as he closes the door and locks it. He ignores any attempt from acquaintances to greet him in the parking lot and makes a dash for class. He’s early. The teacher hasn’t shown up yet, and classmates are gathered around the room, sitting on desks and talking. He sits in a seat in the back of the room he doesn’t normally take. He breathes in and out, closes his eyes, and counts. One, two, three, four…

Heat on his shoulder from a hand placed there. “You look awful,” Scott says pleadingly, and reflexively catches the hand Stiles violently throws upwards to push away his hand and chides, hushed and exasperated, “Stiles! Come on!”

Stiles’ eyes dart around the room, sees only a couple of people warily glancing their direction and then quickly shifting back to minding their own business. Good.

“I’m going to call Derek,” Scott warns under his breath.

Stiles tightens his grip on Scott’s hand. “You promised.”

“I didn’t promise.” Scott whispers. “And you’re scaring me.”

Stiles feels the rage boiling in him and it burns like a wound. “What are you gonna do, Scott?” He stands, relishes that inch he has on Scott to look down from even as Scott straightens. “Gonna take me down?”

Scott looks hurt and it feels sickeningly and deliciously like a victory. “If I have to, I’ll have to do something,” Scott says matter-of-factly, reaches out and timidly tries to touch Stiles again, but Stiles shifts back and looks away. “I don’t want you to hurt anybody, and I don’t want you getting hurt,” Scott clarifies. And then, as if reading his thoughts, he continues just as soft, at a level only they can hear. “I know it seems like I’m doing this to challenge you, but I’m not. I’m just _really_ worried about you.” He’s telling the truth; Stiles can hear his heart’s steady march under the words. He knows deep down Scott wants to help, but Stiles can’t get himself to let him.

“I can take care of myself,” Stiles huffs out and sits back down, his pulse deafening in his ears. He catches a glimpse of Isaac looking over at the two of them from across the classroom, concerned. Stiles knows he heard the whole thing.

Stiles feels Scott’s eyes on him through the rest of class.

His phone lights up on his way to next period. Scott messages, _I won’t call him if I don’t have to._

Stiles feels a little relief and then something pulls him away from his phone, has him darting his head around. It sneaks in like a song on the air - Stiles can smell Danny nearby, his cologne and musk so delectable, his mouth instantly fills with saliva. He feels the blood flow to his cock, edging towards arousal from just the smell of Danny close by. He follows the scent, transfixed, and breathes deep as the scent becomes so strong it feels like it’s all around him. “Hey!” Danny says surprised by Stiles inches away from his face. Stiles feels the sound of Danny’s breathy surprise right in his groin. It takes most of the rational part of his brain he has left to not growl hungrily. He wants Danny here, now. Stiles doesn’t answer Danny’s greeting, instead finds himself grabbing Danny’s face and pulling him in for a kiss that is so ferocious, Stiles feels like he’s trying to pull Danny down to the ground with it. His world zeroes in to just the heat of Danny’s mouth, the smell of his heat rising, his heartbeat rising, the swift uptake of his breath. Everything is warm and red and urgent. It’s a place Stiles could live in, could be devoured by in his own devouring. But Danny breaks the kiss before they topple, smiling and laughing a little, eyes wide, obviously not displeased at all with the gesture, which is good because it’s only now dawning on Stiles how inappropriate it was, as the sounds of their surroundings return in a deafening wave. “Wow,” Danny breathes.

There’s applause and hooting from a few passing students and a “Get a room!” yelled by a guy Stiles has seen around Danny before.

Stiles’ face is hot.

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles mumbles, catching his breath.

“No problem,” Danny laughs, hand still rubbing on Stiles hip, he realizes. When did that get there? “We still on for the show tonight?

And it would be the perfect moment to explain to Danny that he absolutely wishes they were, but – insert crappy untrue excuse here. But Danny looks down at him with those hopeful dark eyes that are currently looking at him and only him… and he just can’t do it. He nods breathlessly, still looking at Danny’s lips.

Stiles turns, unable to manage words, and heads to his next class. He rolls his eyes up in something like a prayer for mercy from anyone listening. What the hell is he going to do now?

 

Stiles is sure of only one thing by the time he’s getting into Danny’s car after school – he is completely screwed. And Danny probably is too. Stiles is gripping his keys tight enough to bruise just to have something to center himself on, but it’s becoming clearer with every passing moment  that the final countdown has begun and he’s nowhere near safe.

Danny is talking to him but Stiles can’t hear it, can’t make sense of the small talk or trace the pattern of conversation, only that there is discomfort when it’s quiet, the spaces Stiles should be filling with his side of the conversation, if he had any mind left to do so.

They park in a parking lot close by and as Stiles steps out of the car he feels the ground shift followed by the hard sobering grit of asphalt on his face and hands. The world goes dark for a minute.

“Stiles! Oh my god!”

Danny is hovering over him, frantically asking him if he’s okay, but all Stiles can manage is a groan as he lifts himself on his elbow, covering his face so Danny can’t see the quickly disappearing scrape he feels there. He looks over and sees his other wrist twisted oddly, and the lack of shock he feels seeing his wrist broken should be unnerving, but it’s not. He’s too scared for Danny now. He leans back against Danny’s car and feels the change a breath away, only a thin tissue of human perspective left to grit out, “Go ahead.”

“What?” Danny exclaims, disbelieving.

The parking lot is relatively empty but Stiles can hear footsteps approaching and someone calls, “Hey is everything okay?”

“Yes!” Stiles protests pitifully. “You have to leave.” Stiles’ heart is pounding as he looks at his watch. 6:55 He screams through his teeth as the first real twist of it hits. He’s pleading, “Please, Danny, just go!”

“Your arm is broken– oh my god, Stiles. I’m calling an ambulance.” Danny’s hands are shaking as he pulls out his phone and drops it.

“Please, I’m fine,” Stiles insists when he so clearly isn’t.

“You are not,” Danny says and manages to unlock his phone.

Stiles groans around another wave and it ends on a sob, because Danny won’t go now. He won’t leave him, and he doesn’t know but he won’t survive this. Danny is as good as dead, and it’s all Stiles’ fault. “I’ll call, please, just go ahead,” Stiles begs through tears. He was an idiot. He should have called Derek. He should have listened to Scott. Why was he so stupid?

There are bright lights and screeching tires and suddenly that damn Camaro coming towards them is the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen in his life. Derek jumps out, slams his door, and strides forward to the two of them, from what Stiles can see, taking in and assessing the situation of what was a date. A very bad date.

“Hey,” Derek says tightly.

“Hi,” Stiles replies and despite how dizzy he feels and on the edge of agony he is, can’t help smiling drunkenly at Derek like the savior Stiles hopes he is right now.

Derek isn’t smiling though and he looks over at Danny, whose voice is high with stress when he says, “He fell. I think he broke his wrist.”

Derek looks over at Stiles with a glare that could freeze hell, and Stiles tries to smile again sheepishly but coincidently has another wave of pain twisting his guts like a knife. He moans and as he crumples, Derek walks over and shakes Danny’s hand in a rush. “I’m Derek, I’m a family friend. Nice to meet you.” Danny’s still shaken and dumbfounded as Derek moves past him.

“You break your wrist, Stiles?” Derek asks incredulously, kneels down, and looks Stiles right in the eye. Stiles instinctively lowers his posture slightly, but lifts his hand already mostly healed. Derek takes his wrist in his hand, mostly for show and then pushes Stiles’ head up and examines his pupils. “You with me?” Derek asks, quietly. Stiles can’t reason through the question, and Derek doesn’t wait long. “It’s twisted, but I’ll take care of it from here,” Derek says over his shoulder to Danny, and grunts as he hoists Stiles up really much rougher than he needs to, Stiles thinks to himself, wincing. “Sorry about your date.”

It’s such a lie, Stiles wonders if even Danny can hear that.

“’m sorry, Danny,” Stiles says miserably as he’s walked away by Derek, the most impatient looking caretaker ever. “I’ll call you.”

The last glimpse Stiles gets of Danny is from the passenger seat as they pull out, and his confused expression has Stiles cursing himself bitterly before Derek can go off on him and make this all a million times worse.

“You stupid— _fuck!_ “ Derek slams the steering wheel with his fist as they speed into the dim light of evening. “Do you have any idea…” Derek can’t even finish the thought. Stiles has never heard him so angry.

Stiles can’t stop saying he’s sorry through tears. He hates being this pitiful, but everything hurts. He feels like he’s dying and if he doesn’t kill something the pain is going to kill him first. He puts his forehead to the cool pane of the window and weeps. “I want to kill you,” Stiles confesses wetly on a sob.

There’s a moment where Stiles is waiting for Derek to be angry for that too, but it doesn’t come.

“I know,” Derek says quietly.

He doesn’t really want Derek dead. He can still touch that rational part of his brain deep down, like a memory of a song or a phrase he read once. _You don’t want to kill him_.

Derek makes a call over the Bluetooth in his car. Stiles is engulfed by Scott’s voice in surround sound, but the words don’t make much sense now. Derek says, “No, I found him.” And Stiles whines. “But call Danny in a couple minutes and tell him he got dropped off at your place and is sleeping, just to be safe. Tell him you called his Dad and everything’s fine.” Scott answers all matter of fact and affirmative, but there’s anxiety there too and his voice is everywhere. Stiles moans and covers his ears and after a few more muffled sounds, he just makes out the tone of the call being ended.

“Hey,” Derek soothes and Stiles hears himself breathing in and out roughly, each exhale a growl.

Derek puts his hand on the back of his neck and cups the exposed skin there, and Stiles is surprised that it calms him instead of igniting more fire in his belly. “Thank you,” he breathes and the car is wondrously quiet.

 

“We’re here.” Stiles can smell they’re at the Hale House through the air vent without even looking up. The charred wood, cool mountain air, and redwoods along with a few hundred other scents all combine to a very familiar location now. He can also smell that they are the only ones there. Stiles vaguely wonders where the rest of the pack is, how they are coping with this full moon, if this is a group experience or not.

“Where is everyone else?” Stiles mutters as Derek opens his door and he gets his feet on the ground.

“They’re in a place I’ve set up for the pack in the warehouse district.” Derek hoists Stiles arm over his shoulder the same as before and Stiles is very glad because his feet aren’t listening to him very well. “They’ve done this already, they know their anchors.”

Stiles mumbles, “And I don’t.”

“First lesson, prepare yourself for a full moon _hours to days before_.” Derek emphasizes the last part as they climb the stairs of the porch. “Lesson two, don’t fight it, work with it. Lesson three,” He leans Stiles against the paneled wall of the house, “find your anchor. You going to fall down or come at me if I break contact?” He asks, his hand still on Stiles’ chest.

“No, I don’t think so.” Stiles shakes his head wearily.

Derek eyes him as he pulls the doorknob with one hand and turns the key with the other to open the lock correctly, and then swiftly shuffles them both inside.

 

If Stiles imagination is correct there must be a lot of friends of werewolf kids that before knowing better think their friends’ parents have an S&M dungeon in their basements. All the same, Stiles appreciates the sturdy metal ring he’s handcuffed to as the change starts coming in waves like a new and different fever than before, a pulsing call of insanity, as inescapable as gravity, the pull twice as great.

Derek makes him as comfortable as possible for that oncoming fall from the human world. The cuffs on his arms and legs at the wrist and ankle are heavy and filled with small dull spikes but they aren’t painful. And Derek brings down a pillow for him to sit on. He gives him a drink of water from a cup, lifting his chin slightly with his other hand and the contact feels as much of a relief as the drink. Stiles coughs and whines.

“What’s the time?” He asks roughly, leans back against the cold of the wall.

“7:18,” Derek says and then backs away slightly and Stiles whines again.

“Are you staying?” Stiles asks and tries not to sound so scared.

Derek sits back and watches him for a moment, expression soft but pensive. “Yeah.”

Stiles groans again and tries not to hyperventilate. But he’s so afraid. He feels on the brink of death, the caterpillar the wasp bursts through a moment before its cruel birth.

“Are you staying here to make sure I’m safe, or is it some kind of masochistic thing?” He’s surprised he managed to get it out. “I don’t want you watching this if it’s just to punish yourself.” He garbles out the last of it and it’s not nasty, it’s just unbelievably sad. He doesn’t want it to be true.  He wants to be cared for and not an obligation to Derek. But he’ll take him staying over leaving. “Please stay,” he pleads, an apology rushed out in desperation. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave. I don’t want you to go.”

Derek hasn’t moved. He rolls his shoulders back. “I’m here.” Derek tilts his head and looks out at the moon now in sight through the high window. He closes his eyes and shivers a little under it but remains unfazed. Stiles watches the stretch of Derek’s throat and swallows down the desire to tear it open. He feels his fangs press on his lips and runs his tongue along one. He breathes deep.

It’s coming, it’s here.

Derek says, far away, “Find your anchor, Stiles.”

Stiles feels the shift hit like he’s been thrown down a shaft into a boiling lake. He screams and flails, feels the heat permeate down to the bone until it leaves him nothing but a hungering, seething mass of parts. He opens his eyes and Derek is still in front of him, expression pensive and severe, just far enough away that Stiles couldn’t get him even if he tried and he realizes he’s trying, he feels the spikes digging into his wrists and his ankles. The perspective tilts and he’s writhing on the floor to get closer to Derek. Derek leans in like a taunt, but also like a teacher because the words coming out of his mouth barely register, but Stiles can hear that word “anchor” again, can here the demand in his tone, all authority. Stiles snaps his jaw and pants, can smell the insides of Derek only a few inches under the skin, a meal, a conquering. He can imagine the heat of the struggle and the light leaving Derek’s eyes, and he wants to taste that victory in his mouth more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. He wants to gorge on Derek until there’s nothing left. Stiles can feel the sweet snap of his bones when he closes his eyes, can imagine the give into them these new fangs would provide to reach the dark hollows where creamy marrow waits and he wants it. He wants it all.

Derek stares at him and Stiles can’t read his expression anymore, can’t translate something so foreignly human. Stiles can hear his own voice, strange and deep and growling. “I’m going to kill you,” it promises Derek. “They’ll be nothing left, nothing.” Derek doesn’t answer, but he’s sweating. He’s fighting the same thing, and that thought just makes Stiles hungrier.

The moonlight hits a shining part of Derek’s neck and Stiles focuses on it. The thought of Derek’s skin, the feel of it. The memory of Derek’s hand on his neck in the car, his touch moments ago when he was securing his wrists, the gentle contact as he had lifted Stiles chin to drink, and further back when he had checked his eyes in the parking lot. Stiles feels something click inside him at the thought, like magnets pulled together, and it’s so clear. He knows Derek’s an Alpha and could break his spine in an instant but Stiles couldn’t care less so long as he’s close, so long as he is there in his space. It’s like pulling himself up from deep tar but Stiles fights back. He focuses on the thought of that touch and grits out a groan as he comes back to himself enough to raise himself up on his forearm and call in his own voice, “Derek?”

Derek’s eyebrows raise.

“Touch me.” Stiles has never been so sure of the rightness of something and also so afraid he was deathly wrong before. He sits up and leans back against the wall, catching his breath. “Derek, I need you to try.”

Derek stands and waits as Stiles fights the pull back down into madness again pleading, “Please, just try.” Derek walks over and squats in front of him, puts his hand carefully over the small area of skin on Stiles’ exposed shin over the now bloody cuff there. Stiles sucks in his breath and breathes through his nose, nods as he feels the hunger die down just barely.

“Does that help?”

Stiles nods again, and Derek places his other hand tentatively to Stiles’ hand, testing further, and Stiles breathes out and nods emphatically through the exhaustion because it’s like finding the gravel road under your shoes after stumbling in the dark for days. He’s so relieved. “Are you kidding me, Stiles?” Derek asks baffled. “Physical touch is your anchor?”

Stiles laughs after a moment because what else can he do?

Derek has the faintest smile when Stiles says, “Daddy didn’t hug me enough or something, right?”

Derek smiles a little with a huff of a laugh. It’s good to see Derek relieved too. His hand rubs at Stiles’ leg.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me.” Stiles doesn’t think it should sound so hopeful, but he’s not as good a liar as he thought. “I mean, look at that. We’re paired up again.”

Derek’s amused expression ebbs away.

Stiles eyes are drifting shut, already half asleep, but still trying to joke the tenseness out of his heart, breathes out, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

 

The moon sets before the sky starts to lighten. Stiles wakes to the sound of birds above and the sensation of warmth at his ankle. Derek is at his feet, curled up in slumber, one arm still reached out to secure himself to the exposed area of Stiles leg. Stiles clears his throat and Derek starts and rises up groggily, running his hand over his face.

“These aren’t as comfortable as they looked,” Stiles jokes limply, gesturing with his hands to his cuffs. Derek checks his watch and fishes the keys out of his pocket.

He’s focused on the locks of the cuffs which means that Stiles is stuck watching Derek for a while. It’s sort of not on purpose. He’s half-awake, and very unaware that he’s studying Derek until he’s been looking for a while. Stiles continues to take him in though, even so. Perhaps it’s a post-full moon thing, or maybe the stunt Stiles pulled yesterday has drained him, but Derek’s normal sort of gruff, self-possessed demeanor isn’t there. Even two weeks ago, when Stiles had spent the night, Derek had kept himself very, well, “poised” maybe wasn’t the right word but it’s close. He looks almost vulnerable in this state now, like if Stiles looks hard enough he might see a younger Derek there from before his own losses and grief, before the sour façade maybe – maybe he hadn’t always been so shut away. Stiles is afraid if he speaks, the moment will disappear like smoke so he stays as still as possible and lets Derek work.

“Are you hungry?” Derek asks down at Stiles hands as he works and Stiles nods weakly. Derek looks up at the lack of verbal response and Stiles is quite suddenly  face to face with Derek, heavy-lidded and strikingly soft with lingering sleep. Stiles’ brain to mouth function is momentarily offline. He nods again.

Derek nods too. “Okay,” he says on an exhale. “We’ll go.” Derek trails off, padlock after padlock snapped open.

Go? Stiles wants to ask but the thought is interrupted by his own gasp of pain as the shackles around his feet come loose with a pull from Derek. “Ow ow, ow…” And then Derek pulls open the manacles holding his hands with jolt and Stiles chokes down a shout which in turn of course turns into a sob instead because apparently the universe has decided he’s not allowed dignity. He bites it back, and scrubs his eyes with the back of his sore but quickly healing bruised wrists.

When his vision clears Derek is staring at him from above and offering him a hand up. Stiles takes it, raises himself onto shaking legs that bow when he gets his weight on them. Derek steadies him with a soft “Hey, hey, okay” and gets a good grip on Stiles’ shoulders.

“I’m okay,” Stiles reassures, attempting to brush him off with the words as he gathers himself, but Derek has him. Derek’s hands are warm and he’s moved one of them to Stiles’ chest slightly where Stiles is sagging forward.

Stiles avoids looking him in the eye until they break contact, where he feels a little less likely to screw up and say something snarky that he’ll regret immediately. Or worse throw himself at him and regret being born. “Thanks,” he adds, straightening, brushes at some dried blood on his sleeve and feels Derek’s eyes on him. When he doesn’t respond, Stiles looks up to Derek nervously.

Derek is frowning. “You’ve got…” he starts, shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll get you a washcloth.”

Stiles follows Derek up the stairs and feels like he’s been running all night with the effort. He groans a little and laughs at the stiffness. He feels giddy, like he survived something. Which in a way is probably true.

Derek is already running water in the sink in the bathroom when Stiles catches up. He hangs outside of the door, shifting his weight, while Derek places a washcloth under the steaming flow of water. He turns the faucet off, wrings the washcloth out, and motions towards Stiles to take the washcloth from him and take his place in front of the mirror to clean up.

Stiles looks in the mirror and he looks like ten kinds of crap – gaunt and tired, dirty streaks all over his cheeks and chin from tears and saliva. Dried blood from wounds no longer there. He puts the whole wash cloth over his face so he doesn’t have to see the aftermath anymore. He breathes in the steam and feels Derek still close by. That security of being watched by him and the heat of the washcloth is a very healing combination. The smell of whatever detergent Derek uses is homey and fresh and he breathes in again. It smells like Derek’s shirts do. He starts wiping off the grime, willing himself more human again than he probably can be.

“I’m starving,” he realizes out loud as he rinses out the washcloth and works on scrubbing at the now apparent grime on his hands. The water rinses off coppery gray.

When Stiles turns off the tap and looks over his shoulder at Derek in reflection, Derek looks away quickly from what appears to be the direction of Stiles’ lower back. Derek meets his eye and Stiles can swear there’s a blush rising on Derek’s cheeks before he turns away, calls, “Good, let’s go.” He hears the jingle of Derek grabbing his keys and heading to the door.

Stiles curses to himself and throws the washcloth in the sink before hurrying to follow Derek to the car.

 


End file.
